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** And how should I possess that power r eontinued the Dwarf, with 
a bitter sneer but mocked thee, girl, when I said I would relieve 

thee.* * Then must I depart, and face my fate as I best may ! ’ ‘ No ! 
said the Dwarf, rising and interposing between her and the door, and 
motioning to her sternly to resume her seat — * No ! you leave me not in 
this way ; we must have farther conference ,’*’ VwrX I, p. IW. 




“ Morton found him seated on his humble eouoh with a pocket Bible 
open in his hand. .... His broadsword, which he had unsheathed in tlie 
first alarm at the arrival of the dragoons, lay naked across his knees. , . 
He raised his head, after Morton had contemplated him for about a min- 
ute. ‘ I perceive,’ said -Morton, looking at his sword, ‘ tliat you lieard the 
horsemen ride by, their passage delayed me for some minutes.’ I 

scarcely heeded them,’ said Balfour; • my hour is not yet come.’ ” 

Bart 1. p. illA 




WAVEELEY NOVELS: 

LIBRARY EDITION. 


VOL. V. 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 

FIRST SERIES- 


BLACK DWARF. -OLD MORTALITY. 

Hear, Land o’ Cakes and brither Scots, 

Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat’s, 

If there’s a hole in a’ your coats, 

I rede ye tent it ; 

A chiel’s amang ye takin’ notes. 

An’ faith he’ll prent it 
Bums. 


^ •*.- V 

FROM THE LAST REVISED EDITION, CONTAINING THE AUTHOR’S 
FINAL CORRECTIONS, NOTES, &c. 


Parker’s edition. 


BOSTON: 

SANBORN, CARTER AND BAZIN. 

NEW YORK : J. S. REDFIELD ; C. S. FRANCIS & CO. 
PHILADELPHIA : THOMAS, COWPERTHWAIT & CO. 
CINCINNATI: H. W. DERBY & CO. 

1 855 . 



Ui S. 8o!dters tiome Ub< 

JUL 3 194t 


ro 

HIS LOVING COUNTRYMEN, 

WHETHER THEY ARE DENOMINATED 

MEN OF THE SOUTH, 

GENTLEMEN OF THE NORTH, 

PEOPLE OF THE WESTj 

OR, 

FOLK OF FIFE ; 

THESE TALES, 

ILLUSTRATIVE OF ANCIENT SCOTTISH MANNERS 

AND OF THE 

TRADITIONS OF THEIR RESPECTIVE DISTRICTS, 

ARE RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED, 

BY THEIR FRIEND AND LIEGE FELLOW-SUBJECT, 

JEDEDIAH CLEISHBOTHAM. 


Ahora bien^ dixo il Cura traedme, senor hu6sped^ aquesos libros^ que los quie- 
ro ver. Que me place, respondid el, y entrando, en su aposento, sacd del una ma- 
letilla vieja cerrada con una cadenilla, y abriindola, halld en ella tres libros 

f rande.} y unos papeles de muy buena letra escritos de mano. — Don Ouixote, 
art£. I> Capitulo 32. 


It is mighty well, said tho priest ; pray, landlord, bring me those books, for I 
have a mind to see them. With all my heart, answered the host ; and going to 
his chamber, he brought out a little old cloke-bag, with a padlock and chain to it, 
and ojrening it, he took out three largo volumes, and some manuscript papers 
written in a fine character. — Jarvis'^sTranslation. 


A .*' » * 

. f 


♦ 





INTRODUCTION. 


As I may, without vanity, presume that the name and 
official description prefixed to this Proem will secure it, 
from the sedate and reflecting part of mankind, to whom 
only I would be understood to address myself, such at- 
ention as is due to the sedulous instructor of youth, and 
-he careful performer of my Sabbath duties, I will for- 
bear to bold up a candle to the daylight, or to point out 
to the judicious those recommendations of my labours 
which they must necessarily anticipate from tlie perusal of 
the title-page. Nevertheless, I am not unaware, that, as 
Envy always dogs Merit at the heels, there may be those 
who will whisper, that albeit my learning and good princi- 
ples cannot (lauded be the Heavens) be denied by any one, 
yet that my situation at Gandercleugh hath been more fa- 
vourable to my acquisitions in learning than to the enlarge- 
ment of my views of the ways and works of the present 
generation. To the which objection, if, peradventure, 
any such shall be started, my answer shall be threefold : 

First, Gandercleugh is, as it were, the central part, — 
the navel ( si fas sit dicer e) of this our native realm of 
Scotland ; so that men, from every corner thereof, when 
travelling on their concernments of business, either to- 
wards our metropolis of law, by which I mean Edinburgh, 
or towards our metropolis and mart of gain, whereby I 
insinuate Glasgow, are frequently led to make Gander- 
cleugh their abiding stage and place of rest for tbe night. 
And it must be acknowledged by the most sceptical, that 
I, who have sat in the leathern arm-chair, on the left-hand 
side of the fire, in the common room of the Wallace 
Inn, winter and summer, for every evening in my life, 
during forty years bypast, (the Christian Sabbaths only 
excepted) must have seen more of the manners and cus- 
toms of various tribes and people, than if I had sought 
them 01 1 by my own painful travqj^ and bodily laboui 
1 * VOL. I. 


vi 


INTRODUCTION 


Even so doth the tollman at the well-frequented turnpike 
on the Wellbrae-head, sitting at his ease in his own dwell- 
ing, gather more receipt of custom, than if, moving forth 
upon the road, he were to require a contribution from 
each person whom he chanced to meet in his journey, 
when, according to the vulgar adage, he might possibly 
be greeted with more kicks than hallpence. 

But, secondly, supposing it again urged, that Ithacus, 
the most wise of the Greeks, acquired his renown, as the 
Roman poet hath assured us, by visiting states and men, 
1 reply to the Zoilus who shall adhere to this objection, 
that, de facto, I have seen states and men also ; for J 
have visited the famous cities of Edinburgh and Glasgow, 
the former twice and the latter three times in the course 
of my earthly pilgrimage. And, moreover, 1 had the 
honour to sit in the General Assembly, (meaning, as an 
auditor in the galleries thereof,) and have heard as much 
goodly speaking on the law of patronage, as, with the 
fructification thereof in mine own understanding, hath 
made me be considered as an oracle upon that doctrine 
ever since my safe and happy return to Gandercleugh. 

Again — and thirdly. If it be nevertheless pretended 
that my information and knowledge of mankind, however 
extensive, and however painfully acquired, by constant 
domestic inquiry, and by foreign travel, is natheless, in- 
competent .to the task of recording the pleasant narra- 
tives of my Landlord, I will let these critics know, to 
their own eternal shame and confusion, as well as to the 
abashment and discomfiture of all who shall rashly take 
up a song against me, that I am not the writer, redacter, 
or compiler of the Tales of my Landlord ; nor am I, in 
one single iota, answerable for their contents, more or 
less. And now, ye generation of critics, who raise your- 
selves up as if it were brazen serpents, to hiss with your 
tongues, and to smite with your stings, bow yourselves 
down to your native dust, and acknowledge that yoius 
have been the thoughts of ignorance, and the words of 
vain foolishness. i»o ! ye are caught in your own snare, 
dnd your own pit hath yawned for you. Turn, then. 


INTRODUCTION. 


Vll 


aside from the task that is too heavy for you ; destroy 
not your teeth by gnawing a file ; waste not your strength 
by spurning against a castle wall ; nor spend your breath 
in contending in swiftness with a fleet steed ; and let 
those weigh the Tales of my Landlord who shall bring 
with them the scales of candour cleansed from the rust of 
prejudice by the hands of intelligent modesty. For these 
alone they were compiled, as will appear from a brief 
narrative which my zeal for truth compelled me to make 
supplementary to the present Proem. 

It is well known that my Landlord was a pleasing and 
a facetious man, acceptable unto all the parish of Gan- 
dercleugh, excepting only the laird, the exciseman, and 
those for whom he refused to draw liquor upon trust. 
Their causes of dislike I will touch separately, adding 
my owm refutation thereof. 

His honour, the Laird, accused our Landlord, de- 
ceased, of havdng encouraged, in various times and places, 
the destruction of hares, rabbits, fowls black and grey, 
partridges, moor-pouts, roe-deer and other birds and quad- 
rupeds, at unlawful seasons, and contrary to the laws of this 
realm, which have secured, in their wisdom, the slaughter 
of such animals for the great of the earth, whom 1 have re- 
marked to take an uncommon (though to me, an unintelli- 
gible) pleasure therein. Now, in humble deference to his 
honour, and in justifiable defence of my friend deceas- 
ed, I reply to this charge, that howsoever the form of such^ 
animals might appear to be similar to those so protected by 
the law, yet it was a mere deceptio visus ; for what re- 
sembled hares were, in fact, hill-kids , and those partaking 
of the appearance of moor-fowl, were truly wood-pigeons, 
and consumed and eaten eo nomine, and not otherwise. 

Again, the exciseman pretended, that my deceased 
Landlord did encourage that species of manufacture 
called distillation, without having an especial permission 
from the Great, technically called a license, for doing so. 
\ow,I st nd up to confront this falsehood ; and in defi 
ance of nim, his gauging-stick, and pen and inkhorn, 1 
tell him, that I never saw, or tasted, a glass of unlawful 


Vlll 


INTRODUCTION. 


aqua vitae in the house of my Landlord ; nay, that, on 
the contrary, we needed not such devices in respect of a 
pleasing and somewhat seductive liquor ,'which was vend- 
ed and consumed at the Wallace Inn, under the name of 
mountain dew. If there is a penalty against manufactur- 
ing such a liquor, let him show me the statute ; and when 
he does. I’ll tell him if I will obey it or no. 

Concerning those who came to my Landlord for liquor, 
and went thirsty away, for lack of present coin, or future 
credit, I cannot but say it has grieved my bowels as if the 
case had been mine own. Nevertheless, my Landlord 
considered the necessities of a thirsty soul, and would 
permit them in extreme need, and when their soul was 
impoverished for lack of moisture, to drink to the full 
value of their watches and wearing apparel, exclusively 
of their inferior habiliments, which he was uniformly in- 
exorable in obliging them to retain for the credit of the 
house. As to mine own part, I may well say, that he 
never refused me that modicum of refreshment with 
which lam wont to recruit nature after the fatigues of 
my school. It is true, I taught his five sons English and 
Latin, writing, book-keeping, with a tincture of mathe- 
matics, and that I instructed his daughters in psalmody. 
Nor do I remember me of any fee or honorarium re- 
ceived from him on account of these my labours, except 
the compotations aforesaid. Nevertheless this compen- 
'• sation suited my humour well, since it is a hard sentence 
to bid a dry throat wait till quarter-day. 

But, truly, were I to speak my simple conceit and be- 
lief, 1 think my Landlord was chiefly moved to waive in 
my behalf the usual requisition of a symbol, or reckon 
ing, from the pleasure he was wont to take in my conver- 
sation, which, though solid and edifying in the main, was 
like a well-built palace, decorated with facetious narra- 
tives and devices, tending much to the enhancement and 
ornament thereof. And so pleased was my Landlord of 
the Wallace in his replies during such colloq lies, that 
theie was no district in Scotland, yea, and no p-xidiar 
and, as it were, distinctive custom therein practised, but 


INTRODUCTION. 


IX 


was discussed betwixt us, insomuch, that those who 
stood by were wont to say, it was worth a bottle of ale to 
hear us communicate with each other. And not a few 
travellers, from distant parts, as well as from the remote 
districts of our kingdom, were wont to mingle in the 
conversation, and to tell news that liad been gathered in 
foreign lands or preserved from oblivion in this our own. 

Now 1 chanced to have contracted for teaching the 
ower classes with a young person called Peter, or Pa- 
trick, Pattieson, who had been educated for our Holy 
Kirk, yea, had, by the license of presbytery, his voice 
opened therein as a preacher, who delighted in the col- 
lection of olden tales and legends, and in garnishing them 
with the flowers of poesy, whereof he was a vain and 
frivolous professor. For he followed not the example of 
those strong poets whom I proposed to him as a pattern, 
but formed versification of a flimsy and modern texture, 
to the compounding whereof was necessary small pains 
and less thought. And hence I have chid him as being 
one of those who bring forward the fatal revolution pro- 
phesied by Mr. Robert Carey, in his Vaticination on the 
Death of the celebrated Dr. John Donne : 

Now thou art gone, and thy strict laws will be 
Too hard for libertines in poetry ; 

Till verse (by thee refined) in this last age 
Turn ballad rhyme. 

I had also disputations with him touching his indulging 
rather a flowing and redundant than a concise and stately 
diction in his prose exercitations. But notwithstanding 
these symptoms of inferior taste, and a humOur of con- 
tradicting his betters upon passages of dubious construc- 
tion in Latin authors, I did grievously lament when Peter 
Pattieson was removed from me by death, even as if he 
had been the offspring of my own loins. And in respect his 
papers had been left in my care, (to answer funeral and 
death-bed expenses,) I conceived myself entitled to dis- 
pose of one parcel thereof, entitled, “ Tales of my Land- 
lord,” to one cunning in the trade (as it is called) of 
bookselling. He was a mirthful man, of small stature, 
cunning in counterfeiting of voices, and in making face- 


INTRODUCTION. 


K 

tious tales and responses, and whom I have to laud for the 
truth of his dealings towards me. 

Now, therefore, the world may see tfie injustice that 
charges me with incapacity to write these narratives, see- 
ing, that though I have proved that I could have written 
them if I would, yet, not having done so, the censure will 
deservedly fall, if at all due, upon the memory of Mr. 
Peter Pattieson 5 whereas I must be justly entitled to 
the praise, when any is due, seging that, as the Dean of 
St. Patrick’s wittily and logically expresseth it, 

That without which a thing is not, 

Is Causa sine qua nou. 

The work, therefore, is unto me as a child is to a pa- 
rent ; in the which child, if it proveth worthy, the parent 
hath honour and praise ; but, if otherwise, the disgrace 
will deservedly attach to itself alone. 

1 have only further to intimate, that Mr. Peter Pattieson, 
in arranging these Tales for the press, hath more consulted 
his own fancy than the accuracy of the narrative ; nay, that 
he hath sometimes blended two or three stories togeth- 
er for the mere grace of his plots. Of which infidelity, 
although I disapprove and enter my testimony against it, 
yet 1 have not taken upon me' to correct the same, in 
respect it was the will of the deceased, that his manu- 
script should be submitted to the press without diminution 
or alteration. A fanciful nicety it was on the part of my 
deceased friend, who, if thinking wisely, ought rather to 
have conjured me, by all the tender ties of our friendship 
and common pursuits, to have carefully revised, altered, 
and augmented, at my judgment and discretion. But 
the will of the dead must be scrupulously obeyed, even 
when we weep over their pertinacity and self-delusion. 
Soj gentle reader, I bid you farewell, recommending you 
to such fare as the mountains of your own country pro- 
duce ; and I will only farther premise, that each tale is 
preceded by a sliort introduction, mentioning the persons 
by whom, and the circumstances under which, the mate- 
rials thereof were collected. 

JeDEDLAH CLElSHEOTHAAi 


THE BLACK DWARF, 


INTRODUCTION 

TO 

THE REVISED EDITION. 


The ideal being who is here presented as residing in 
solitude, and haunted by a consciousness of his own de- 
formity, and a suspicion of his being generally subjected 
to the scorn of his fellow-men, is not altogether imagina- 
ry. An individual existed many years since, under the 
author’s observation, which suggested such a character. 
This poor unfortunate man’s name was David Ritchie, a 
native of Tweeddale. He was the son of a labourer in 
the slate-quarries of Stobo, and must have been born in 
the mis-shapen form which he exhibited, though he 
sometimes imputed it to ill-usage when in infancy. Hi 
was bred a brush-maker at Edinburgh, and had wander- 
ed to several places, working at his trade, from all which 
he was chased by the disagreeable attention which his 
hideous singularity of form and face attracted wherever 
he came. The author understood him to say he had 
even been in Dublin. 

Tired at length of being the object of shouts, laughter, 
and derision, David Ritchie resolved, like a deer hunted 
from the herd, to retreat to some wilderness, where he 
might have the least possible communication with t)ie 
world which scoffed at him. He settled himself, vvitf 
this view, upon a patch of wild moorland at the bottom ol 
a bank on the farm of Woodhouse, in the sequestered 
vale of the small river Manor, in Peebles-shire. The 
few people who had occasion to pass that way were much 


4 


INTRODUCTION TO 


surpiised, and some superstitious persons a little alarmed, 
to see so strange a figure as Bow’d Davie {i. e. Crooked 
David) employed in a task, for which he seemed so total- 
ly unfit, as that of erecting a house. The cottage which 
he built was extremely small, but the walls, as well as 
those of a little garden that surrounded it, were construct- 
ed with an ambitious degree of solidity, being composed 
of layers of large stones and turf ; and some of the corner 
stones were so weighty, as to puzzle the spectators how 
such a person as the architect could possibly have raised 
them. In fact, David received from passengers, or those 
who came attracted by curiosity, a good deal of assist- 
ance ; and as no one knew how much aid had been given 
by others, the wonder of each individual remained undi- 
minished. 

The proprietor of the grouijd, the late Sir James Nae- 
smith, baronet, chanced to pass this singular dwelling, 
which, having been placed there without right or leave 
asked or given, formed an exact parallel with Falstaff’s 
simile of a “ fair house built on another’s ground so 
that poor David might have lost his edifice by mistaking 
the property where he had erected it. Of course, the 
proprietor entertained no idea of exacting such a for- 
feiture, but readily sanctioned the harmless encroach- 
ment. 

The personal description of Elshender of Muckle- 
staiie-Moor has been generally allowed to be a tolerably 
exact and unexaggerated portrait of David of Manor 
Water. He was not quite three feet and a half high, 
since he could stand upright in the door of his mansion, 
which was just that height. The following particulars 
concerning his figure and temper occur in the Scots Mag- 
azine for 1817, and are now understood to have been 
communicated by the ingenious Mr. Robert Chambers of 
Edinburgh, who has recorded with much spirit the tradi- 
tions of the Good Town, and, in other publications, large- 
ly and agreeably added to the stock of our popular an- 
thjuities. He is the countryman of David Ritchie, and 
nad the best access to collect anecdotes of him. 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


5 


“ His skull,” says this authority, which was of an 
oblong and rather unusual shape, was said to be of such 
strength, that he could strike it with ease through the 
panel of a door, or the end of a barrel. His laugh is 
said to have been quite horrible ; and his screech-owl 
voice, shrill, uncouth, and dissonant, corresponded well 
with his other peculiarities. 

“ There was nothing very uncommon about his dress. 
He usually wore an old slouched hat when he went abroad ; 
and when at home, a sort of cowl or night-cap. He 
never wore shoes, being unable to adapt them to his mis- 
shapen finlike feet, but always had both feet and legs quite 
concealed, and wrapt up with pieces of cloth. He always 
walked with a sort of pole or pike-staff, considerably 
taller than himself. His habits were, in many respects, 
singular, and indicated a mind congenial to its uncouth 
tabernacle. A jealous, misanthropical, and irritable tem- 
per, was his prominent characteristic. The sense of his 
deformity haunted him like a phantom. And the insults 
and scorn to which this exposed him, had poisoned his 
heart with fierce and bitter feelings, which, from other 
points in his character, do not appear to have been more 
largely infused into his original temperament than that ol 
his fellow-men. 

‘‘ He detested children, on account of their propensity 
to insult and persecute him. To strangers he was gen- 
erally reserved, crabbed, and surly ; and though he by 
no means refused assistance or charity, he seldom either 
expressed or exhibited much gratitude. Even towards 
persons who had been his greatest benefactors, and who 
possessed the gre-atest share of his good-will, he frequent- 
ly displayed much caprice and jealousy. A lady who 
had known him from his infancy, and who has furnished 
us in the most obliging manner with some particulars re- 
specting him, says, that although Davie showed as much 
respect and attachment to her father’s family, as it was in 
his nature to show to any, yet they were always obliged 
2d 1 VOL. I. 


6 


INTRODUCTION TO 


to be very cautious in their deportment towards him. One 
day, having gone to visit him with another lady, he took 
them through his garden, and was showing them, with 
much pride and good-humour, all his rich and tastefully 
assorted borders, when they happened to stop near a plot 
of cabbages which had been somewhat injured by the 
caterpillars. Davie, observing one of the ladies smile, 
instantly assumed his savage, scowling aspect, rushed 
among the cabbages, and dashed them to pieces with his 
kent, exclaiming, ‘ I hate the worms, for they mock me !’ 

“ Another lady, likewise a friend and old acquaintance 
of his, very unintentionally gave David mortal offence on 
a similar occasion. Throwing back his jealous glance as 
he was ushering her into his garden, he fancied he ob- 
served her spit, and exclaimed, with great ferocity, ‘ Am 
I a toad, woman ! that ye spit at me — that ye spit at me 
and without listening to any answer or excuse, drove her 
out of his garden with imprecations and insult. When 
irritated by persons for whom he entertained little respect, 
his misanthropy displayed itself in words, and sometimes 
in actions, of still greater rudeness ; and he used on such 
occasions the most unusual and singularly savage impre- 
cations and threats.”* 

Nature maintains a certain balance of good and evil in 
all her works ; and there is no state perhaps so utterly des- 
olate, which does not possess some source of gratification 
peculiar to itself. This poor man, whose misanthropy was 
founded in a sense of his own preternatural deformity, had 
yet his own particular enjoyments. Driven into solitude, 
he became an admirer of the beauties of nature. His 
garden, which he sedulously cultivated, and from a piece 
of wild moorland made a very productive spot, was his 
pride and his delight ; but he was also an admirer of 
more natural beauty : the soft sweep of the green hill 
the bubbling of a clear fountain, or the complexities of a 
wild thicket, were scenes on which he often gazed for 


Scots Magazine, vol. 80, p. 207. 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


7 


hours, and, as he said, with inexpressible delight. It was 
perhaps for this reason that he was fond of Shenstone’s 
pastorals, and some parts of Paradise Lost. The author 
has heard his most unmusical voice repeat the celebrated 
description of Paradise, which he seemed fully to appre- 
ciate. His other studies were of a different cast, chiefly 
polemical. He never went to the parish church, and was 
therefore suspected of entertaining heterodox opinions 
though his objection was probably to the concourse of 
spectators, to whom he must have exposed his unseemly 
deformity. He spoke of a future state with intense feel- 
ing, and even with tears. He expressed disgust at the 
idea of his remains being mixed with the common rub- 
bish, as he called it, of the churchyard, and selected with 
his usual taste a beautiful and wild spot in the glen where 
he had his hermitage, in which to take his last repose. 
He changed his mind, however, and was finally interred 
in the crmmon burial-ground of Manor parish. 

The author has invested Wise Elshie with some quali- 
ties which made him appear, in the eyes of the vulgar, a 
man possessed of supernatural power. Common fame 
paid David Ritchie a similar compliment, for some of the 
poor and ignorant, as well as all the children, in the 
neighbourhood, held him to be what is called uncanny. 
He himself did not altogether discourage the idea ; it 
enlarged his very limited circle of power, and in so far 
gratified his conceit ; and it soothed his misanthropy, by 
increasing his means of giving terror or pain. But even 
in a rude Scottish glen thirty years back, the fear of sor- 
cery was very much out of date. 

David Ritchie affected to frequent solitary scenes, es- 
pecially such as were supposed to be haunted, and valued 
himself upon his courage in doing so. To be sure he 
had little chance of meeting anything more ugly than 
himself. At heart, he was superstitious, and planted many 
rowans (mountain ashes) around his hut, as a certain de- 
fence against necromancy. For the same reason, doubt- 
less, he desired to have rowan-trees set above his grave. 


8 


INTRODUCTION TO 


We have stated that David Ritchie loved objects of 
natural beaaty* His only living favourites were a dog 
and a cat, to which he was particularly attached, and his 
bees, which he treated with great care. He took a sister, 
latterly, to live in a hut adjacent to his own, but he did 
not permit her to enter it. She was weak in intellect, 
but not deformed in person ; simple, or rather silly, but 
not, like her brother, sullen or bizarre. David was never 
affectionate to her 5 it was not in his nature ; but he en- 
dured her. He maintained himself and her by the sale 
of the produce of their garden and bee-hives ; and, lat- 
terly, they had a small allowance from the parish. In- 
deed, in the simple and patriarchal state in which the 
country then was, persons in the situation of David and 
his sister were sure to be supported. They had only to 
apply to the next gentleman or respectable farmer, and 
were sure to find them equally ready and willing to sup- 
ply their very moderate wants. David often received 
gratuities from strangers, which he never asked, never 
refused, and never seemed to consider as an obligation. 
He had a right, indeed, to regard himself as one of Na- 
ture’s paupers, to whom she gave a title to be maintained 
by his kind, even by that deformity which closed against 
him all ordinary ways of supporting himself by his own 
labour. Besides, a bag was suspended in the mill for 
David Ritchie’s benefit ; and those who were carrying 
home a melder of meal, seldom failed to add a gowpen* 
to the alms-bag of the deformed cripple. In short, Da- 
vid had no occasion for money, save to purchase snuff, 
his only luxury, in which he indulged himself liberally. 
When he died, in the beginning of the present century, 
he was found to have hoarded about twenty pounds, a 
habit very consistent with his disposition ; for wealth is 
power, and power was what David Ritchie desired to 
possess, as a compensation for his exclusion from human 
society. 


* Handful. 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


9 


His sister survived till the publication of the tale to 
which this brief notice forms the introduction ; and the 
author is sorry to learn that a sort of “ local sympathy,” 
and the curiosity then expressed concerning the Author 
of Waverley and the subjects of his Novels, exposed the 
poor woman to inquiries which gave her pain. When 
pressed about her brother’s peculiarities, she asked, in 
her turn, why they would not permit the dead to rest ? 
To others, who pressed for some account of her parents, 
she answered in the same tone of feeling. 

The author saw this poor, and, it may be said, unhap- 
py man, in autumn 1797. Being then, as he has the 
happiness still to remain, connected by ties of intimate 
friendship with the family of the venerable Dr. Adam 
Fergusson, the philosopher and historian, who then resid- 
ed at the mansion-house of Halyards, in the vale of Ma- 
nor, about a mile from Ritchie’s hermitage, the author 
was upon a visit at Halyards, which lasted for several 
days, and was made acquainted with this singular ancho- 
rite, whom Dr. Fergusson considered as an extraordinary 
character, and whom he assisted in various ways, particu- 
larly by the occasional loan of books. Though the taste 
of the philosopher and the poor peasant did not, it may 
be supposed, always correspond,* Dr. Fergusson con- 
sidered him as a man of a powerful capacity and original 
ideas, but whose mind was thrown off its just bias by a 
predominant degree of self-love and self-opinion, galled 
by the sense of ridicule and contempt, and avenging it- 
self upon society, in idea at least, by a gloomy misan- 
thropy. 

David Ritchie, besides the utter obscurity of his life 
while in existence, had been dead for many years, when 
it occurred to the author that such a character might be 


* I remember David was particularly anxious to see a book, which he 
called, I think, Letters to the Elect Ladies, and which, he said, was the best 
composition he had ever read 5 but Dr, Fergusson's library did not. supply 
the volume. 


10 


INTRODUCTION. 


made a powerful agent in fictitious narrative. He, ac- 
cordingly, sketched that of Elshie of the Mucklestane- 
Moor. The story was intended to be longer, and the 
catastrophe more artificially brought out ; but a friendly 
critic, to whose opinion I subjected the work in its pro- 
gress, was of opinion, that the idea of the Solitary was 
of a kind too revolting, and more likely to disgust than 
to interest the reader. As I had good right to consider 
my adviser as an excellent judge of public opinion, I got 
off my subject by hastening the story to an end, as fast 
as it was possible ; and, by huddling into one volume, a 
tale which was designed to occupy two, have perhaps 
produced a narrative as much disproportioned and dis- 
torted, as the Black Dwarf, who is its subject. 


THE 


BLACK DWARF. 


CHAPTER I. 

Preliminary. 


Hast any philosophy in thee, Shepherd ? 

You Liki it. 

It was a fine April morning (excepting that it liad 
snowed hard the night before, and the ground remained 
covered with a dazzling mantle of six inches in depth) 
when two horsemen rode up to the Wallace Inn. The 
first was a strong, tall, powerful man, in a grey riding- 
coai, having a hat covered with wax-cloth, a huge silver- 
mounted horsewhip, boots, and dreadnought overalls. He 
was mounted on a large strong brown mare, rough in 
coal, but well in condition, with a saddle of the yeoman- 
ry cut, and a double-bitted military bridle. The man 
who accompanied him was apparently his servant ; he 
rode a shaggy little grey pony, had a blue bonnet on 
his head, and a large check napkin folded about his 
neck, wore a pair of long blue worsted hose, instead 
of boots, had bis gloveless hands much stained with 
tar, and observed an air of deference and respect to- 
wards his companion, but without any of those indica- 
tions of. precedence and punctilio which are preserved 
between the gentry and their domestics. On the contra- 
ry, the two travellers entered the court-yard abreast, and 
the concluding sentence of the conversation which had 


12 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


oeen carrying on betwixt them, was a joint ejaculation 
“ Lord guide us, an’ this weather last, what will come 
o’ the lambs !” The hint was sufficient for my landlord 
who, advancing to take the horse of the principal person, 
and holding him by the reins as he dismounted, while his 
ostler rendered the same service to the attendant, wel- 
comed the stranger to Gandercleugh, and, in the same 
breath, inquired, what news from the south hielands 9 
“ News ?” said the farmer, “ bad eneugh news, I think ; — 
an we can carry through the yowes it will be a’ we can do ; 
we maun e’en leave the lambs to the Black Dwarfs care.” 

“ Ay, ay,” subjoined the old shepherd, (for such he 
was,) shaking his head, “ he’ll be unco busy amang tbe 
morts this season.” 

“ The Black Dwarf !” said my learned friend and 
patron,^ Mr. Jedediah Cleishbotham, “ and what sort 
of a personage may he be ?” 

“ Hout awa, man,” answered tbe farmer, “ ye’ll hae 
heard o’ canny Elshie the Black Dwarf, or I am muckle 
mistaen — A’ the warld tells tales about him, but it’s but 
daft nonsense after a’ — I dinna believe a word o’t frae 
beginning to end.” 

“ Your father believed it unco stievely, though,” said 
the old man, to whom the scepticism of his master gavi; 
obvious displeasure. 

“ Ay, very true, Bauldie, but that was in the time o’ 
the blackfaces — they believed a hantle queer things in 
thae days, that naebody heeds since the lang sheep cam 
in.” 

“ The mair’s the pity, the mair’s the pity,” said the 
old man. “ Your father, and sae 1 have aften tell’d ye, 
maister, wad hae been sair vexed to hae seen the auld 
peel-house wa’s pu’d down to make park dykes 5 and the 


* We have in this, and other instances, printed in italics some few words 
which the worthy editor, Mr. Jedediah Cleishbotham, seems to have interpolat- 
ed upon the text of his deceased friend, Mr. Pattieson. We must observe, once 
for all, that such liberties seem only to have been taken by the learned gentle- 
man where hiso. 'n character and conduct are concerned ; and surely he must 
he the best judge of the styie in which his own character and conduct should 
he treated of. 


THE BLACK DWARF. J3 

bonny broomy knowe, where he liked sae weel to sit at 
e’en, wi’ his plaid about him, and look at the kye as they 
cam down the loaning, ill wad he hae liked to hae seen 
that braw sunny knowe a’ riven out wi’ the pleugh in the 
fashion it is at this day.” 

Hout, Bauldie,” replied the principal, tak ye that 
dram the landlord’s offering ye, and never fash your head 
about the changes o’ the warld, sae lang as ye’re blithe 
and bien yoursell.” 

“ Wussing your health, sirs,” said the shepherd ; and, 
having taken off his glass, and observed the whiskey was 
the right thing, he continued, “ It’s no for the like o’ us 
to be judging, to be sure ; but it was a bonny knowe that 
broomy knowe, and an unco braw shelter for the lambs 
in a severe morning like this.” 

Ay,” said his patron, “ but ye ken we maun hae tur- 
nips for the lang sheep, billie, and muckle hard wark to get 
them, baith wi’ the pleugh and the howe ; and that wad sort 
ill wi’ sitting on the broomy knowe, and cracking about 
Black Dwarfs, and siccan clavers, as was the gate lang 
syne, when the short sheep were in the fashion.” 

“ Aweel, aweel, maister,” said the attendant, short 
sheep had short rents, I’m thinking.” 

Here my worthy and learned patron again interposed, 
and observed, ‘‘ that he could never perceive any mate- 
rial difference, in point of longitude, between one sheep 
and another.” 

Tliis occasioned a loud hoarse laugh on the part of the 
farmer, and an astonished stare on the part of the shep- 
herd. It’s the woo’, man, — it’s the woo’, and no the 
beasts themsells, that makes them be ca’d lang or short. 
I believe if ye were to measure their backs, the short 
sheep wad be rather tbe langer-bodied o’ the twa ; but 
rt’s the woo’ that pays the rent in thae days, and it had 
muckle need.” 

‘‘ Odd, Bauldie says very true,” — short sheep 
did make short rents — my father paid for our steed- 
ing just threescore pounds, and it stands me in three 

2 '^OL. 1. 


14 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


hundred, plack and bawbee. — And that’s very true-— Ihae 
nae time to be standing here clavering — Landlord, get us 
our breakfast, and see an’ get the yauds fed — I am for 
down to Christy Wilson’s, to see if him and me can gree 
about the luckpenny I am to gie him for his year-aulds. 
We had drank sax mutchkins to the making the bargain 
at St. Boswell’s fair, and some gate we canna gree upon 
the particulars preceesely, for as muckle time as we took 
about it — I doubt we draw to a plea. — But hear ye, 
neighbour,” addressing my worthy and learned patron^ 
‘‘ if ye want to hear onything about lang or short sheej), 
I will be back here to my kail against ane o’clock ; or, if 
ye want ony auld-warld stories about the Black Dwarf, 
and sic-like, if ye’ll ware a half mutchkin upon Bauldie 
there, he’ll crack t’ye like a pen-gun. And I’segieyea 
mutchkin mysell, man, if I can settle weel wi’ Christy 
Wilson.” 

The farmer returned at the hour appointed, and with 
him came Christy Wilson, their difference having been 
fortunately settled without an appeal to the gentlemen of 
the long robe. My learned and worthy patron failed not 
to attend, both on account of the refreshment promised 
to the mind and to the body, although he is known to 
partake of the latter in a very moderate degree ; and the 
party with which my landlord was associated, continued 
to sit late in the evening, seasoning their liquor with many 
choice tales and songs. The last incident which I recol- 
lect, was my learned and worthy patron falling from his 
chair, just as he concluded a long lecture upon temper- 
ance, by reciting, from the Gentle Shepherd, a couplet, 
which he right happily transferred from the vice o' 
avarice to that of ebriety : 

He that has just eneugh may soundly sleep, 

The owercome only fashes folk to keep. 

In the course of the evening the Black Dwarfs had 
not been forgotten, and the old shepherd, Bauldie, told 
so many stories of him, that they excited a good deal of 
interest. It also appeared, tho'tgh not till the third punch- 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


15 


bowl was emptied, that much of the farmer’s scepticism 
on the subject was affected, as evincing a liberality of 
thinking, and a freedom from ancient prejudices, becom- 
ing a man who paid three hundred pounds a-year of rent, 
while, in fact, he had a lurking belief in the traditions of 
his forefathers. After my usual manner, I made farther 
inquiries of other persons connected with the wild and 
pastoral district in which the scene of the following nar- 
rative is placed, and I was fortunate enough to recover 
many links of the story, not generally known, and which 
account, at least in some degree, for the circumstances 
of exaggerated marvel with which superstition has attired 
it in the more vulgar traditions. 


CHAPTER II. 

Will none but Hearne the Hunter serve your turn ? 

Merry Wives of Windsor. 

In one of the most remote districts of the south of 
Scotland, where an ideal line, drawn along the tops of 
lofty and bleak mountains, se])arates that land from her 
sister kingdom, a young man, called Halbert, or Hobbie 
Elliot, a substantial farmer, who boasted his descent from 
old Martin Elliot of the Preakin-tower, noted in Border 
story and song, was on his return from deer-stalking. The 
deer, once so numerous among these solitary wastes, 
were now reduced to a very few herds, which, sheltering 
themselves in the most remote and inaccessible recesses, 
rendered the task of pursuing them equally toilsome and 
precarious. There were, however, found many^ 
youth of the country, ardently attached to this sport, 
with all its dangers' and fatigues. The sword had 
been sheathed upon the borders for more than a hundred 
years, by the peaceful union of the crowns in the reign 
of James the first, of Great Britain. Still the country 


16 


TALES or MT LANDLORD. 


retained traces of what it had been in former days ; the 
inhabitants, their more peaceful avocations having been 
repeatedly interrupted by the civil wars of the preceding 
century , were scarce yet broken in to the habits of reg- 
ular industry, sheep-farming had not been introduced 
upon an) considerable scale ; and the feeding of black 
cattle was the chief purpose to which the hills and valleys 
were applied. Near to the farmer’s house the tenant usual- 
ly contrived to raise such a crop of oats or barley, as af- 
forded meal for his family j and the whole of this slov- 
enly and imperfect mode of cultivation left much time 
upon his own hands, and those of his domestics. This 
was usually employed by the young men in hunting and 
fishing ; and the spirit of adventure, which formerly led 
to raids and forays in the same districts, was still to be 
discovered in the eagerness with which they pursued 
those rural sports. 

The more high-spirited among the youth, were, about 
the time that our narrative begins, expecting, rather with 
hope than apprehension, an opportunity of emulating 
their fathers in their military achievements, the recital of 
which formed the chief part of their amusement within 
doors. The passing of the Scottish act of security had 
given the alarm to England, as it seemed to point at a 
separation of the two British kingdoms, after the decease 
of Queen Anne, the reigning sovereign. Godolphin, then 
at the head of the English administration, foresaw that 
there was no other mode of avoiding the probable ex- 
tremity of a civil war, but by carrying through an incor- 
porating union. How that treaty was managed, and how 
little it seemed for some* time to promise the beneficial 
results which have since taken place to such extent, may 
be learned from the history of the period. It is enough 
for our purpose to say, that all Scotland was indignant 
at the terms on which their legislature had surrendered 
their national independence. The general resentment led 
to the strangest leagues, and to the wildest plans. The 
Cameronians were about to take arms for the restoration 
of the house of Stuart, whom they regarded, with jus 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


17 


tice, as their oppressors ; and the intrigues of the period pre- 
sented the strange picture of papists, prelatists, and presby- 
terians, caballing among themselves against the English 
government, out of a common feeling that their country had 
been treated with injustice. The fermentation was univer 
sal ; and, as the population of Scotland had been generally 
trained to arms, under the act of security, they were not 
indifferently prepared for war, and waited but the declara- 
tion of some of the nobility to break out into open hostility. 
It was at this period of public confusion that our story opens. 

The cleugh, or wild ravine, into which Hobbie Elliot 
had followed the game, was already far behind him, and 
he was considerably advanced on his return homeward, 
when the night began to close upon him. This would 
have been a circumstance of great indifference to the 
experienced sportsman, who could have walked blindfold 
over every inch of his native heaths, had it not happened 
near a spot, which, according to the traditions of the 
country, was in extremely bad fame, as haunted by super- 
natural appearances. To tales of this kind Hobbie had, 
from his childhood, lent an attentive ear ; and as no part 
of the country afforded such a variety of legends, so no 
man was more deeply read in their fearful lore than 
Hobbie of the Heugh-foot ; for so our gallant was called, 
to distinguish him from a round dozen of Elliots who 
bore the same Christian name. It cost him no efforts, 
therefore, to call to memory the terrific incidents con- 
nected with the extensive waste upon which he was now 
entering. In fact, they presented themselves with a 
readiness which he felt to be somewhat dismaying. 

This dreary common was called Mucklestane-Moor, 
from a huge column of unhewn granite, which raised its 
massy head on a knoll near the centre of the heath, per- 
haps to tell of the mighty dead who slept beneath, or to 
preserve the memory of some bloody skirmish. The 
real cause of its existence, had, however, passed away ; 
and tradition, which is as frequently an inventor of fiction 
as a preserver of truth, had supplied its place with a 
VOL. I. 


18 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


supplementary legend of her own, which now came full 
upon Robbie’s memory. The ground about the pillar 
was strewed, or rather encumbered, with many large 
fragments of stone of the same consistence with the col- 
umn, which, from their appearance, as they lay scattered 
on the waste, were popularly called the Grey Geese of 
Mucklestane-Moor. The legend accounted for this 
name and appearance, by the catastrophe of a noted and 
most formidable witch who frequented these hills in 
former days, causing the ewes to kth^ and the kine to 
cast their calves, and performing all the feats of mischief 
ascribed to these evil beings. On this moor she used to 
hold her revels with her sister hags ; and rings were still 
pointed out on which no grass nor heath ever grew, the 
turf being, as it were, calcined by the scorching hoofs of 
their diabolical partners- 

Once upon a time this old hag is said to have crossed 
the moor, driving before her a flock of geese, which she 
proposed to sell to advantage at a neighbouring fair ; — 
for it is well known that the fiend, however liberal in im- 
parting his powers of doing mischief, ungenerously leaves 
his allies under the necessity of performing the meanest 
rustic labours for subsistence. The day was far advanc- 
ed, and her chance of obtaining a good price depended 
on her being first at the market. But the geese, which 
had hitherto preceded her in a pretty orderly manner, 
when they came to this wide common, interspersed with 
marches and pools of water, scattered in every direction, to 
plunge into the element in which they delighted. Incensed 
at the obstinacy with which they defied all her efibrts to 
collect them, and not remembering the precise terms of 
the contract by which the fiend was bound to obey her 
commands for a certain space, the sorceress exclaimed, 
“ Deevil, that neither I nor they ever stir from this spot 
more !” The words were hardly uttered, when, by a meta- 
morphosis as sudden as any in Ovid, the hag and her refrac- 
tory flock were converted into stone, the angel whom she 
served, being a strict formalist, grasping eagerly at an oppor- 
tunity of completing the ruin of her body and soul by a literal 


THE BIACK DWARF. 


19 


obedience to her orders. It is said, that when she per- 
ceived and felt the transformation which was about to 
take place, she exclaimed to the treacherous fiend, 
“ Ah, thou false thief! lang hast thou promised me a 
grey gown, and now Lam getting ane that will last for 
ever.” The dimensions of the pillar, and of the stones 
were often appealed to, as a proof of the superior stature 
and size of old women and geese in the days of other 
years, by those praisers of the past who held the com- 
fortable opinion of the gradual degeneracy of mankind. 

All particulars of this legend Hobbie called to mind as 
he passed along the moor. He also remembered, that, 
since the catastrophe had taken place, the scene of it had 
been avoided, at least after night-fall, by all human be- 
ings, as being the ordinary resort of kelpies, spunkies, 
and other demons, once the companions of the witch’s 
diabolical revels, and now continuing to rendezvous upon 
the same spot, as if still in attendance on their transform- 
ed mistress. Robbie’s natural hardihood, however, man- 
fully combated with these intrusive sensations of awe. 
He summoned to his side the brace of large greyhounds, 
who were the companions of his sports, and who were 
wont, in his own phrase, to fear neither dog nor devil ; 
he looked at the priming of his piece, and, like the 
clown in Hallowe’en, whistled up the warlike ditty of 
Jock of the Side, as a general causes his drums to be 
beat to inspirit the doubtful courage of his soldiers. 

In this state of mind, he was very glad to hear a friend- 
ly voice shout in his rear, and propose to him a partner 
on the road. He slackened his pace, and was quickly 
joined by a youth well known to him, a gentleman of 
some fortune in that remote country, and who had been 
abroad on the same errand with himself. Young 
EarnsclifF, “ of that ilk,” had lately come of age, and 
succeeded to a moderate fortune, a good deal dilapidated, 
from the share his family had taken in the disturbances of 
the period. They were much and generally respected 
in the country; a reputation which this young gentleman 
seemed likely to sustain, as he was well educated, and of 


20 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


excellent dispositions. “ Now, EarnsclifF,” exclaimea 
Hobbie, “ I am glad to meet your honour ony gait, and 
company’s blithe on a bare moor like this — it’s an unco 
bogilly bit — Where hae ye been sporting 

“ Up the Carla Cleugh, Hobbie,” answered Earns- 
clifF, returning his greeting. “ But will our dogs keep the 
peace, think you 

‘‘ Deil a fear o’ mine,” said Hobbie, ‘‘ they hae 
scarce a leg to stand on. — Odd ! the deer’s fled the 
country, I think ! I hae been as far as Inger-fell-foot, 
and deil a horn has Hobbie seen, excepting three red- 
wud raes, that never let me within shot of them, though 
I gaed a mile round to get up the wind to them, an’ a’. 
Deil o’ me wad care mucKle, only I wanted some veni- 
son to our auld gude-dame. The carline, she sits in the 
neuk yonder, upbye, and cracks about the grand shooters 
and hunters lang syne — Odd, I think they hae killed a’ 
the deer in the country, for my part.” 

“ Well, Hobbie, I have shot a fat buck, and sent him 
to EarnsclifF this morning — you shall have half of him 
for your grandmother.” 

‘‘ Mony thanks to ye, Mr. Patrick, ye’re kend to a’ the 
country for a kind heart. It will do the auld wife’s heart 
glide — mair by token, when she kens it comes frae you 
— and maist of a’, gin ye’ll come up and take your share, 
for I reckon ye are lonesome now in the auld tower, and 
a’ your folk at that weary Edinburgh. I wonder what 
they can find to do amang a wheen ranks o’ stane houses, 
wi’ slate on the tap o’ them, that might live on their ain 
bonny green hills.” 

“ My education and my sisters’ has kept my mothe 
much in Edinburgh for several years,” said EarnsclifF, 
‘ but I promise you 1 propose to make up for lost time.” 

“ Andj^e’ll rig out the auld tower a bit,” said Hobbie, 
“ and live hearty and neighbour-like wi’ the auld family 
friends, as the Laird o’ EarnsclifF should ^ 1 can tell 

ye, my mother — my grandmother 1 mean — but since we 
lost our ain mother, we ca’ her sometimes the tane and 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


21 


sometimes the tother — but, ony gate, she conceits hersell 
no that distant connected wi’ you.” 

“ Very true, Hobbie, and 1 will come to the Heugh- 
foot to dinner to-morrow with all my heart.” 

“ Weel, that’s kindly said ! We are auld neighbours, 
an we were na kin — and my gude-dame’s fain to see you 
— she clavers about your father that was killed lang syne.’ 

“ Hush, hush, Hobbie — not a word about that — it’s a 
story better forgotten.” 

“ I dinna ken — if it had chanced amang our folk, we 
wad hae keepit it in mind mony a day till we got some 
mends for’t ; but ye ken your ain ways best, you lairds 
— I have heard say that Ellieslaw’s friend stickit your 
sire after the laird himsellhad mastered his sword.” 

‘‘ Fie, fie, Hobbie ; it was a foolish brawl, occasioned 
by wine and politics — many swords were drawn — it is 
impossible to say who'struck the blow.” 

“ At ony rate, auld Ellieslaw was aiding and abetting, 
and I am sure if ye were sae disposed as to take amends 
on him, naebody could say iFwas wrang, for your father’s 
blood is beneath his nails — and besides there’s naebody 
else left that was concerned to take amends upon, and 
he’s a prelatist and a Jacobite into the bargain — I can tell 
ye the country folk look for something atween ye.” 

“ O for shame, Hobbie !” replied the young laird ; 
“ you that profess religion, to stir your friend up to break 
the law, and take vengeance at his own hand, and in such 
a bogilly bit too, where we know not what beings may be 
listening to us !” 

“ Hush, hush !” said Hobbie, drawing nearer to his 
companion, “ I was nae thinking o’ the like o’ them — 
But I can guess a wee bit what keeps your hand up, Mr. 
Patrick ; we a’ ken it’s, no lack o’ courage, but the twa 
grey een of a bonnie lass. Miss Isbel Vere, that keeps 
you sae sober.” 

“ I assure you, Hobbie,” said his companion, rather 
angrily, “ I assure you, you are mistaken ; and it is ex- 
tremely wrong of you, either to think of, or to utter, such 
an idea ; I have no idea of permitting freedoms to be 


22 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


carried so far as to connect my name with that of any 
young lady.” 

“ Why, there now — there now !” retorted Elliot , 
“ did I not say it was nae want o’ spunk that made ye 
sae mim 9 — Weel, weel, I meant nae offence ; but there’s 
just ae thing ye may notice frae a friend. The auld 
laird of Ellieslaw has the auld riding blood far better at 
his heart than ye hae — troth, he kens naething about tha 
new-fangled notions o’ peace and quietness — he’s a’ fo 
the auld-warld doings o’ lifting and laying on, and he has 
a wheen stout lads at his back too, and keeps them weel 
up in heart, and as fu’ o’ mischief as young colts. Where 
he gets the gear to do’t, nane can say ; he lives high, and 
far abune his rents here ; however, he pays his way — 
Sae, if there’s ony outbreak in the country, he’s likely to 
break out wi’ the first ; and weel does he mind the auld 
quarrels between ye. I’m surmizing he’ll be for a touch 
at the auld tower at Earnscliff.” 

“ Well, Hobbie,” answered the young gentleman, “ if 
he should be so ill-advised, I shall try to make the old 
tower good against him, as it has been made good by rny 
betters against his betters many a day ago.” 

“ Very right — very right — that’s speaking like a man 
now,” said the stout yeoman ; “ and, if sae should be 
that this be sae, if ye’ll just gar your servant jow out the 
great bell in the tower, there’s me, and my twa brothers, 
and little Davie of the Stenhouse, will be wi’ you, wi’ a’ 
the power we can make, in the snapping of a flint.” 

“ Many thanks, Hobbie,” answered Earnscliff ; “ but 
I hope we shall have no war of so unnatural and unchris- 
tian a kind in our time.” 

“ Hout, sir, hout,” replied Elliot ; “ it wad be but a 
wee bit neighbour war, and Heaven and earth would make 
allowances for it in this uncultivated place — it’s just the 
nature o’ the folk and the land — we canna live quiet like 
Loudon folk — we haena sae muckle to do. It’s impossible.’ 

“ Well, Hobbie,” said the Laird, “ for one who be- 
lieves so deeply as you do in supernatural appearances, I 
must own you take Heaven in your own hand rather auda- 
ciously, considering where we are walking.” 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


23 


“ What needs I care for the Mucklestane-Moor ony mair 
than ye do yoursell, EarnsclifF ?” said Hobbie, something 
offended ; “ to be sure, they do say there’s a sort o’ worri- 
cows and lang-nebbit things about the land, but what need I 
care for them ? I hae a good conscience, and little to answer 
for, unless it be about a rant amang the lasses, or a splore 
at a fair, and that’s no muckle to speak of. Though I say 

it mysell, I am as quiet a lad and as peaceable” 

“ And Dick Turnbull’s head that you broke, and Willie 
of Winton whom you shot at ?” said his travelling com- 
panion. 

“ Hout, EarnsclifF, ye keep a record of a’ men’s mis- 
doings — Dick’s head’s healed again, and we’re to fight out 
the quarrel at Jeddart, on the rood-day, so that’s like a 
thing settled in a peaceable way ; and then I am friends 
wi’ Willie again, puir chield — it was but twa or three 
hail draps after a’. 1 wad let ony body do the like o’t 

to me for a pint o’ brandy. But Willie’s Lowland bred, 
poor fallow, and soon frighted for himsell.— And for the 

worricows, were we to meet ane on this very bit” 

“ As is not unlikely,” said young EarnsclifF, “ for 
there stands your old witch, Hobbie.” 

1 say,” continued Elliot, as if indignant at this hint, 
“ I say, if the auld carline hersell was to get up out of 
the grund just before us here, I would think nae mair — 
but, gude preserve us, EarnsclifF, what can yon be !” 


CHAPTER III. 


Brown dwarf, that o’er the moorland strays. 
Thy name to Keeldar tell ! 

“ The Brown Man of the Moor, that stays 
Beneath the heather-bell.” 

John Leyden. 


The object which alarmed the young farmer in the 
middle of his valorous protestations, startled for a mo- 


24 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


rnent even his less-prejudiced companion. The moon, 
which had arisen during their conversation, was, in the 
phrase of that country, wading or struggling with clouds, 
and shed only a doubtful and occasional light. By one 
of her beams, which streamed upon the great granite col- 
umn to which they now approached, they discovered a 
form, apparently human, but of a size much less than 
ordinary, which moved slowly among the large grey 
stones, not like a person intending to journey onward, 
but with a slow, irregular, flitting movement of a being 
who hovers around some spot of melancholy recollection, 
uttering also, from time to time, a sort of indistinct mut- 
tering sound. This so much resembled his idea of the 
motions of an apparition, that Hobbie Elliot, making a 
dead pause, while his hair erected itself upon his scalp, 
whispered to his companion, It's auld Ailie hersell! 
Shall I gie her a shot, in the name of God 

“ For Heaven’s sake, no,” said his companion, hold- 
ing down the weapon which he was about to raise to the 
aim — “ for Heaven’s sake, no ; it’s some poor distracted 
creature.” 

“Ye’re distracted yoursell,for thinking of going so near 
to her,” said Elliot, holding his companion, in his turn, 
as he prepared to advance. “ We’ll aye hae time to pit 
ower a bit prayer (an I could but mind ane) afore she 
comes this length — God ! she’s in nae hurry,” continued 
he, growing bolder from his companion’s confidence, and 
tlie little notice the apparition seemed to take of them. 
“ She hirples like a hen on a het girdle. I redd ye, 
EarnsclifF,” (this he added in a gentle whisper,) “ let us 
take a cast about, as if to draw the wind on a buck — the 
bog is no abune knee-deep, and better a saft road as bad 
company.”^ 

EarnsclifF, however, in spite of his companion’s resist- 
ance and remonstrances, continued to advance on the 
patn tliey had originally pursued, and soon confronted 
the onject of their investigation. 

The height of the figure, which appeared even to de- 
crease as they approached it, seemed to be under four 


THE BLACK DWABF. 


25 


feet, and its form, as far as the imperfect light afforded 
them the means of discerning, was very nearly as broad 
as long, or rather of a splierical shape, which could only 
be occasioned by some strange personal deformity. The 
young sportsman hailed this extraordinary appearance 
twice without receiving any answer, or attending to the 
pinches by which his companion endeavoured to intimate 
that their best course was to walk on, without giving far- 
ther disturbance to a being of such singular and preter 
natural exterior. To the third repeated demand of 
“ Who are you What do you here at this hour of 
night*?” — a voice replied, whose shrill, uncouth, and dis- 
sonant tones made Elliot step two paces back and start- 
led even his companion, “ Pass on your way, and ask 
nought at them that ask nought at you.” 

“ What do you do here so far from shelter *? Are you 
benighted on your journey *? Will you follow us home, 
(‘ God forbid,’ ejaculated Hobbie Elliot, involuntarily,) 
and I will give you a lodging.” 

“ I would sooner lodge by mysellinthe deepest of the 
Tarras-flow,” again whispered Hobbie. 

“ Pass on your way,” rejoined the figure, the harsh 
tones of his voice still more exalted by passion. ‘‘ i 
want not your guidance: — I want not your lodging — it is 
five years since my head w^as under a human roof, and j 
trust it was for the last time.” 

“ He is mad,” said Earnscliff. 

“ He has a look of auld Humphrey Ettercap, the 
tinkler, that perished in this very moss about five years 
syne,” answered his superstitious companion ; “ but 
Humphrey wasna that awfu’ big in the bouk.” 

“ Pass on your way,” reiterated the object of their 
curiosity, “ the breath of your human bodies poisons the 
air around me — the sound of your human voices goes 
through my ears like sharp bodkins.” 

“ Lord safe us !” whispered Hobbie, “ that the dead 
should bear sic fearfu’ ill-will to the living ! — his saul 
maun be in a puir way. I’m jealous.” 

3 VOL. I. 


26 


TAXES OF MY JLAJVDXOllD. 


“ Come, my friend,” said EarnsclifF, ‘‘ you seem to 
suffer under some strong affliction ; common humanity 
will not allow us to leave you here.” 

“ Common humanity !” exclaimed the being, with a 
scornful laugh that sounded like a shriek, “ where got ye 
that catch-word — that noose for woodcocks — that com- 
mon disguise for man-traps — that bait which the wretch- 
ed idiot who swallows, will soon find covers a hook with 
barbs ten times sharper than those you lay for the animals 
which you murder for your luxury !” 

“ I tell you, my friend,” again replied Earnscliff 
“ you are incapable of judging of your own situation — you 
will perish in this wilderness, and we must in compassion 
fiDrce you along with us.” 

“ I’ll hae neither hand nor foot in’t,” said Hobbie ; 
“ let the ghaist take his ain way, for God’s sake!” 

“ My blood be on my own hand, if I perish here,” 
said the figure ; and, observing EarnsclifF meditating to 
lay hold on him, he added, “ and your blood be on 
yours, if you touch but the skirt of my garments to infect 
me with the taint of mortality !” 

The moon shone more brightly as he spoke thus, and 
EarnsclifF observed that he held out his right hand armed 
with some weapon of offence, which glittered in the cold 
ray like the blade of a long knife, or the barrel of a pis- 
tol. It would have been madness to persevere in his 
attempt upon a being thus armed, and holding such des- 
perate language, especially as it was plain he would have 
little aid from his companion, who had fairly left him to 
settle matters with the apparition as he could, and had 
proceeded a few paces on his way homeward. Earns- 
cliff, therefore, turned and followed Hobbie, after looking 
back towards the supposed maniac, who, as if raised to 
frenzy by the interview, roamed wildly around the great 
stone, exhausting his voice in shrieks and imprecations 
that thrilled wildly along the waste heath. 

The two sportsmen moved on some time in silence, 
until they were out of hearing of these uncouth sounds, 
which was not ere they had gained a considerable dis- 


THE HLACK DWARF. 


27 


lance from the pillar that gave name to the moor. Each 
made his private comments on the scene they had wit- 
nessed, until Hobbie Elliot suddenly exclaimed, “ VVeel, 
I’ll uphaud that yon ghaist, if it be a ghaist, has baith 
done and suffered muckle evil in the desh, that gars him 
rampauge in that way after he is dead and gane.” 

“ It seems to me the very madness of misanthropy,” 
said Eatnscliff, following his own current of thought. 

“ And ye didna think it was a spiritual creature, then 
asked Hobbie at his companion. 

“ Who, I ^ — No, surely.” 

“ Weel, I am partly of the mind my sell that it may be 
a live thing — and yet I didna ken, 1 wadna wish to see 
ony thing look liker a bogle.” 

‘‘ At any rate,” said Earnscliff, “ I will ride over to- 
morrow, and see what has become of the unhappy 
being.” 

“ In fair daylight 7” queried the yeoman ; “ then, 
grace o’ God, I’se be wi’ ye. But here we are nearer 
to Heugh-foot than to your house by twa miles, — hadna, 
ye better e’en gae hame wi’ me, and we’ll send the 
callant on the powny to tell them that you are wi’ us, 
though I believe there’s naebody at hame to wait for you 
but the servants and the cat.” 

“ Have with you then, friend Hobbie,” said the young 
hunter ; “ and as I would not willingly have either the ser- 
vants be anxious, or puss forfeit her supper, in my absence, 
I’ll be obliged to you to send the boy as you propose.” 

“ Aweel, that is kind, I must say. And ye’ll gae 
hame to Heugh-foot 9 They’ll be right blithe to see you, 
that will they.” 

This affair settled, they walked briskly on a little far- 
ther, when, coming to the ridge of a pretty steep hill, 
Hobbie Elliot exclaimed, “ Now, Earnscliff, I am aye 
glad when I come to this very bit — Ye see the light be- 
low, that’s in the ha’ window, where grannie, the gash 
auld carline, is setting birling at her wheel; and ye see 
yon other light that’s gaun whiddin’ back and forrit 
through amang the windows ? that’s my cousin, Grace 
Armstrong, — she’s twice as ( lever about the house as mv 


TALES OF V I.AAELOUI). 


5S 

sisters, and sae they say thenisells, for tliey’re good-natur- 
ed lasses as ever trod on heather ; but they confess 
themsells, and sae does grannie, that she has far maist 
action, and is the best goer about the toun, now that 
grannie is off the foot hersell— My brothers, ane o’ them’s 
away to wait upon the chamberlain, and ane’s atMoss-pha- 
draig, that’s our led farm — he can see after the stock 
just as weel as I can do.” * 

“ You are lucky, my good friend, in having so many 
valuable relations.” 

“ Troth am I — Grace make me thankful, I’se never 
deny it. — But will ye tell me now, EarnsclifF, you that 
have been at college, and the high-school of Edinburgh, 
and got a’ sort o’ lair where it was to be best gotten — 
will you tell me — no that it’s ony concern of mine in par- 
ticular, — but I heard the priest of St. John’s, and our 
minister, bargaining about it at the Winter fair, and troth 
they baith spak very weel — Now, the priest says it’s un- 
lawful to marry ane’s cousin ; but I cannot say I thought 
he brought out the gospel authorities half sae weel as our 
minister — our minister is thought the best divine and the 
best preacher atween this and Edinburgh — Dinna ye 
think he was likely to be right T’ 

“ Certainly, marriage, by all protestant Christians, is 
held to be as free as God made it by the Levitical law : 
so, Hobbie, there can be no bar, legal or religious, be- 
twixt you and Miss Armstrong.” 

“ Hout awa’ wi’ your joking, Earnscliff,” replied his 
companion, — “ ye are angry aneugh yourseil if ane touch- 
es you a bit, man, on the sooth side of the jest — No that 
I was asking the question about Grace, for ye maun ken 
she’s no my cousin-germain out and out, but the daughter 
of my uncle’s wife by her first marriage, so she’s nae kith 
nor kin to me — only a connexion like. But now we’re 
at the Sheeling-hiil — I’li lii-e off my gun, to let them ken 
I’m coming, that’s aye my way ; and if i liae a deer 1 gie 
Uiem twa shots, ane for the deer and ane for myseil.” 

He bred off his piece accordingly, and the number of 
lights were seen to traverse the house, and even to gleam 


THE BLACK DAVARE. 


29 


oefore it. Hobbie Elliot pointed out one of these to 
Earnsclilf, which seemed to glide from the house towards 
some of the out-houses — ‘‘ That’s Grace hersell,” said 
Hobbie. “ She’ll no meet me at the door, I’se warrant 
iier — but she’ll be awa’, for a’ that, to see if my hounds’ 
supper be ready, poor beasts.” 

“ Love me, love mj^ dog,” answered EarnsclifF. 
“ Ah, Hobbie, you are a lucky young fellow !” 

This observation was uttered with something like a 
sigh, which apparently did not escape the ear of his com- 
panion. 

^ “ Hout, other folk may be as lucky as I am — O how 
I have seen Miss Isbel Vere’s head turn after somebody 
when they passed ane another at the Carlisle races ! 
Wha kens but things may come round in this world 9” 

EarnsclifF muttered something like an answer ; but 
whether in assent of the proposition, or rebuking the ap- 
plication of it, could not easily be discovered ; and it 
seems probable that the speaker himself was willing his 
meaning should rest in doubt and obscurity. They had 
now descended the broad loaning, which, winding round 
the foot of the steep bank, or heugh, brought them in 
front of the thatched, but comfortable, farm-house, which 
was the dwelling of Hobbie Elliot and his family. 

The door-way was thronged with joyful faces ; but the 
appearance of a stranger blunted many a gibe which had 
been prepared on Hobbie’s lack of success in the deer- 
stalking. There was a little bustle among three hand- 
some young women, each endeavouring to devolve upon 
another the task of ushering the stranger into the apart- 
ment, while probably all were anxious to escape for the pur- 
pose of making some little personal arrangements before 
])Veseiuing themselves to a young gentleman in a dishabille 
only intended for their brother. Hobbie, in the meanwhile 
bestowing some hearty and general abuse upon them all 
(lor Grace was not of the party,) snatched the candle from 
the hand of one of the rustic coquettes, as she stood playing 
pretty with it in her hand, and ushered his guest into the 
3* VOL. I. 


30 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


family parlour, or rather hall ; for the place having been 
a house of defence in former times, the sitting apartment 
was a vaulted and paved room, damp and dismal enough 
compared with the lodgings of the yeomanry of our days, 
but which, when well lighted up with a large sparkling 
fire of turf and bog- wood, seemed to EarnsclifF a most 
comfortable exchange for the%iarkness and bleak blast of 
the hill. Kindly and repeatedly was he welcomed by 
the venerable old dame, the mistress of the family, who, 
dressed in her coif and pinners, her close and decent 
gown of home-spun wool, but with a large gold necklace 
and ear-rings, looked, what she really was, the lady as 
well as the farmer’s wife, while seated in her chair of 
wicker, by the corner of the great chimney^ she directed 
the evening occupations of the young women, and of two 
or three stout serving wenches, who sat plying their dis- 
taffs behind the backs of their young mistresses. 

As soon as Earnscliff had been duly welcomed, and 
hasty orders issued for some addition to the evening 
meal, his grand-dame and sisters opened their battery 
upon Hobbie Elliot for his lack of success against the 
deer. 

“ Jenny needna have kept up her kitchen-fire for a’ 
that Hobbie has brought hame,” said one sister. 

“ Troth no, lass,” said another ; “ the gathering peat^ 
if it w^as weel blawn, wad dress a’ our Robbie’s venison.” 

“ Ay, or the low of the candle if the wind wad let it 
bide steady,” said a third ; “ if I were him, I would 
bring hame a black craw^ rather than come back three 
times without a buck’s horn to blaw on.” 

Hobbie turned from the one to the other, regarding 
them alternately with a frown on his brow, the augury o 
which was confuted by the good-humoured laugh on the 
lower part of his countenance. He then strove to pro- 
pitiate them, by mentioning the intended present of his 
companion. 

“ Tn my young days,” said the old lady, “ a man wad 
hae been ashamed to come back frae the hill without a 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


31 


buck hanging on each side o’ his horse, like a cadgei 
carrying calves.” 

“ 1 wish they had left some for us then, grannie,” re- 
torted Hobbie ; “ they’ve cleared the country o’ them, 
thae auld friends o’ yours, I’m thinking.” 

“Ye see other folk can find game, though you cannot, 
Hobbie,” said the eldest sister, glancing a look at young 
EarnsclifF. 

“ Weel, weel, woman, hasna every dog his day, beg- 
ging EarnsclifF’s pardon for the auld saying — Mayna 
I hae his luck, and he mine, another time 9 — It’s a braw 
thing for a man to be out a’ day, and frighted — na, I 
winna say that neither — but mistrysted wi’ bogles in the 
hame-coming, and then to hae to flyte wi’ a wheen women 
that hae' been doing naetbing a’ the live-lang day but 
whirling a bit stick, wi’ a thread trailing at it, or boring 
at a clout.” 

“ Frighted wi’ bogles !” exclaimed the females, one 
and all, — for great was the regard then paid, and perhaps 
still paid, in these glens to all such fantasies. • 

“ I did not say frighted, now — I only said mis-set wi’ 
the thing — And there was but ae bogle, neither — Earns- 
clifF, ye saw it as weel as I did 9” 

And he proceeded, without very much exaggeration, 
to detail, in his own way, the meeting they had with the 
mysterious being at Mucklestane-Moor, concluding, he 
could not conjecture what on earth it could be, unless it 
was either the Enemy himsell,orsome of the auld Peghts 
that held the country lang syne. 

“ Auld Peght !” exclaimed the grand-dame ; “ na, na 
— bless thee frae scathe, my bairn, it’s been nae f^eght 
that — it’s been the Brown Man of the Moors ! O w:eary 
fa’ thae evil days ! — what can evil beings be coining for 
to distract a poor country, now it’s peacefully settled, and 
living in love and law — O weary on him ! he ne’er 
brought gude to these lands or the indwellers. My father 
aften tauld me he was seen in the year o’ the bloody fight 
at Marston-Moor, and then again in Montrose’s troubles, 
and again before the rout o’ Dunbar, and, in my ain time, 


32 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


he was seen about the time o’ Bothwell-Brigg, and they 
oaid the second-sighted Laird o’ Benarbuck had a com- 
muning vvi’ him some time afore Argyle’s landing, but 
that 1 cannot speak to sae preceesely — it was far in the 
west. — O, bairns, he’s never permitted but in an ill time 
sae mind ilka ane o’ ye to draw to Him that can help in 
the day of trouble.” 

EarnsclifF now interposed, and expressed his firm con- 
viction that the person they had seen was some poor ma- 
niac, and had no commission from the invisible world to 
announce either war or evil. But his opinion found a 
very cold audience, and all joined to deprecate his pui- 
pose of returning to the spot the next day. 

“ O, my bonnie bairn,” said the old dame, ‘(for, in the 
kindness of her heart, she extended her parental style to 
all in whom she was interested) — “ You should beware 
mair than other folk — there’s been a heavy breach made 
in your house wi’ your father’s bloodshed, and wi’ law- 
pleas, and losses sin-syne ; — and you are the flower of 
die flock,, and the lad that will build up the auld biggjng 
again (if it be His will) to be an honour to the country, 
and a safeguard to those that dwell in it — you^ before 
others, are called upon to put yoursell in no rash adven- 
tures — for your’s was aye ower venturesome a race, and 
muckle harm they have got by it.” 

“ But I am sure, my good friend, you would not have 
me be afraid of going to an open moor in broad daylight*?” 

“ 1 dinna ken,” said the good old dame ; “ 1 wad 
never bid son or friend o’ mine hand their hand back in a 
gude cause, whether it were a friend’s or their ain — that 
should be by nae bidding of mine, or of onybody that’s 
come of a gentle kindred — But it winna gang out of a 
grey head like mine, that to gang to seek for evil that’s 
no fashing wi’ you, is clean against law and Scripture.” 

Earnscliff* resigned an argument which he saw no pros- 
pect of maintaining with good effect, and the entrance of 
supper broke off the conversation. IMiss Grace had by 
this time made her appearance, and Hobble, not without 
a conscious glance at Earnscliff, placed himself by her 


THE BLACK DWAKE. 


33 


side. Mirth and lively conversation, in which the old 
lady of the house took the good-humoured share which 
so well becomes old age, restored to the cheeks of the 
damsels the roses which their brother’s tale of the appari- 
tion had chased away, and they danced and sung for an 
hour after supper, as if there were no such things as gob- 
lins in the world. 


CHAPTER IV. 

I am Misanthropes, and hate mankind ; 

For thy part, I do wish thou wert a dog, 

That I might love thee something. 

Timon of Athens. 

On the following morning, after breakfast, Earnscliff 
took leave of his hospitable friends, promising to return 
in time to partake of the venison, which had arrived from 
his house. Hobbie, who apparently took leave of him 
at the door of his habitation, slunk out, however, and 
joined him at the top of the hill. 

“ Ye’ll be gaun yonder, Mr. Patrick ; feind o’ me will 
mistryst you for a’ my mother says. I thought it best to 
slip out quietly though, in case she should mislippen some- 
thing of what we’re gaun to do — we maunna vex Tier at 
nae rate — it was amaist the last word my father said to 
me on his death-bed.” 

“ By no means, Hobbie,” said EarnsclifF ; “ she well 
merits all your attention.” 

“ Troth, for that matter, she would be as sair vexed 
amaist for you as for me. But d’ye really think there’s 
nae presumption in venturing back yonder *? — We hae 
nae special commission, ye ken.” 

“ If I thought as you do, Hobbie,” said the young 
gentleman, “ I would not perhaps inquire farther into this 
business ; but as I am of opinion that preternatural visi 


34 


TALF-S OF xMY LANDLORD. 


tations are either ceased altogether, or become very rare 
in our days, I am unwilling to leave a matter uninvestigat- 
ed which may concern the life of a poor distracted being.” 

“ Aweel, aweel, if ye really think that,” answered 
Hobbie doubtfully — “ And it’s for certain the very fairies 
— I mean the very good neighbours theinsells(for they say 
folk suldna ca’ them fairies) that used to be seen on every 
green knowe at e’en, are no half sae often visible in our 
days. I canna depone to having ever seen ane mysell, 
but I ance heard ane whistle ahint me in the moss, as like 
a whaup'^as ae thing could be like anither. And mony 
ane my father saw when he used to come hame frae the 
fairs at e’en, wi’ a drap drink in his head, honest man.” 

EarnsclifF was somewhat entertained with the gradual 
declension of superstition from one generation to another, 
which was inferred in this last observation ; and they con- 
tinued to reason on such subjects, until they came in sight 
of the upright stone which gave name to the moor. 

“ As I shall answer,” says Hobbie, “ yonder’s the 
creature creeping about yet ! — But it’s daylight, and you 
have your gun, and I brought out my bit whinger — [ think 
we may venture on him.” 

“ By all manner of means,” said EarnsclifF ; “ but, in 
the name of wonder, what can he be doing there 

“ Biggin a dry-stane dyke, I think, wi’ the grey geese, 
as they ca’ thae great loose stanes — Odd, that passes a’ 
thing I e’er heard tell of 1” 

As they approached nearer, EarnsclifF could not help 
agreeing with his companion. The figure they had seen 
the night before seemed slowly and toilsomely labouring 
to pile the large stones one upon another, as if to form a 
small inclosure. Materials lay round him in great plenty, 
but the labour of carrying on the work was immense, 
from the size of most of the stones ; and it seemed as- 
tonishing that he should have succeeded in moving several 
which he had already arranged for the foundation of his 
edifice. He was struggling to move a fragment of great 
size, when the two young men came up, and was so intent 
upon executing his purpose, that he did not perceive them 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


35 


till they were close upon him. In straining and heav'ng 
at the stone, in order to place it according to his wish, hs 
displayed a degree of strength which seemed utterly in- 
consistent with his size and apparent deformity. Indeed, 
to judge from the difficulties he had already surmounted, 
he must have been of Herculean powers ; for some of the 
stones he had succeeded in raising apparently required 
two men’s strength to have moved them. Hobbie’s sus- 
])icions began to revive, on seeing the preternatural 
strength he exerted. 

“ ] am amaist persuaded it’s the ghaist of a stane-mason 
— see siccan band-stanes as he’s laid ! — An it be a man, 
after a’, I wonder what he wad take by the rood to build 
a march dyke. There’s ane sair wanted between Crin- 
glehope and the Shaws. — Honest man, (raising his voice,) 
ye make good firm wark there *?” 

The being whom he addressed raised his eyes, with a 
ghastly stare, and, getting up from his stooping posture, 
stood before them in all his native and hideous deformity. 
His head was of uncommon size, covered with a fell of, 
shaggy hair, partly grizzled with age ; his eyebrows, shaggy 
and prominent, overhung a pair of small, dark, piercing eyes, 
set far back in their sockets, that rolled with a portentous 
wildness, indicative of a partial insanity. The rest of his 
features were of the coarse, rough-hewn stamp, with 
which a painter would equip a giant in romance; to which 
was added, the wdld, irregular, and peculiar expression 
so often seen in the countenances of those whose persons 
are deformed. His body, thick and square, like that of 
a man of middle size, was mounted upon two large feet ; 
but nature seemed to have forgotten the legs and the thighs, 
or they were so very short as to be hidden by the dress 
which he wore. His arms were long and brawny, fur- 
nished with two muscular hands, and, where uncovered in 
the eagerness of his labour, were shagged with coarse 
black hair. It seemed as if nature had originally intend- 
ed, the separate parts of his body to be the members of a 
giant, but had afterwards capriciously assigned them to 
the person of a Dwarf, so ill did the length of his arms 


36 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


and the iron strength of his frame correspond with the 
shortness of his stature. His clothing was a sort of coarse 
brown tunic, like a monk’s frock, girt round him with a 
belt of seal-skin. On his head he had a cap made of 
badger’s skin, or some other rough fur, which added con- 
siderably to the grotesque effect of his whole appearance, 
and overshadowed features, whose habitual expression 
seemed that of sullen malignant misanthropy. 

This remarkable Dwarf gazed on the two youths in 
silence, with a dogged and irritated look, until Earnscliff, 
willing to sooth him into better temper, observed, “ You 
are hard tasked, my friend ; allow us to assist you.” 

Elliot and he accordingly placed the stone, by their 
joint efforts, upon the rising wall. The Dwarf watched 
them with the eye of a task master, and testified, by peev- 
ish gestures, his impatience at the time which they took 
in adjusting the stone. He pointed to another — they 
raised it also — to a third, to a fourth — they continued to 
humour him, though with some trouble, for he assigned 
J;hem, as if intentionally, the heaviest fragments which 
lay near. 

“ And now, friend,” said Elliot, as the unreasonable 
Dwarf indicated another stone larger than any they had 
moved, “ Earnscliff may do as he likes ; but be ye man, 
or be ye waur, deil be in my fingers if I break my back 
wi’ heaving thae stanes ony langer like a barrow-man, 
without getting sae mnckle as thanks for my pains.” 

“ Thanks !” exclaimed the Dwarf, with a motion ex- 
pressive of the utmost contempt — “ There — take them, 
and fatten upon them ! Take them, and may they thrive 
with you as they have done with me — as they have done 
with every mortal worm that ever heard the word spoken 
by his fellow reptile ! Hence — either labour or begone!” 

“ This is a fine reward we have, Earnscliff, for building 
a tabernacle for the devil, and prejudicing our ain souh 
into the bargain, for what we ken.” 

“ Our presence,” answered Earnscliff, “ seems only to 
irritate his frenzy ; we had better leave him, and send 
some one to provide him with food and necessaries ” 


THE BLACK DWAKF. 


37 


They did so. The servant dispatched for this purpose 
found the Dwarf still labouring at his wall, but could not 
extract a word from him. The lad, infected with the 
superstitions of the country, did not long persist in an 
attempt to intrude questions or advice on so singular a 
figure, but having placed the articles which he had brought 
for his use on a stone at some distance, he left them at 
the misanthrope’s disposal. 

The Dwarf proceeded in his labours, day after day, 
with an assiduity so incredible as to appear almost super- 
natural. In one day he often seemed to have done the 
work of two men, and his building soon assumed the ap- 
pearance of the walls of a hut, which, though very small, 
and constructed only of stones and turf, without any mor- 
tar, exhibited, from the unusual size of the stones employ- 
ed, an appearance of solidity very uncommon for a cot- 
tage of such narrow dimensions and rude construction. 
EarnsclifF, attentive to his motions, no sooner perceived 
to what they tended, than he sent down a number of spars 
of wood, suitable for forming the roof, which he caused 
to be left in the neighbourhood of the spot, resolving next 
day to send workmen to put them up. But his purpose 
was anticipated, for in the evening, during the night, and 
early in the morning, the Dwarf had laboured so hard, 
and with such ingenuity,- that he had nearly completed the 
adjustment of the rafters. His next labour was to cut 
rushes and thatch his dwelling, a task which he performed 
with singular dexterity. 

As he seemed averse to receive any aid beyond the 
occasional assistance of a passenger, materials suitable to 
his purpose, and tools, were supplied to him, in the use of 
which he proved to be skilful. He constructed the door 
and window of his cot, he adjusted a rude bedstead, and 
a few shelves, and appeared to become somewhat sooth- 
ed in his tem|)er as his accommodations increased. 

His next task was to form a strong inclosure, and to 
cultivate the land within it to the best of his power ; until, 
by transporting mould, and working up what was upon the 
4 VOL. I. 


38 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


spot, he formed a patch of garden-ground. It must he 
naturally supposed, that, as above hinted, this solitary 
being received assistance occasionally from such travellers 
as crossed the moor by chance, as well as from several 
who went from curiosity to visit his works. It was, in- 
deed, impossible to see a human creature, so unfitted, at 
first sight, for hard labour, toiling with such unremitting 
assiduity, without stopping a few minutes to aid him in his 
task ; and, as no one of his occasional assistants was ac- 
quainted with the degree of help which the Dwarf had 
received from others, the celerity of his progress lost none 
of its marvels in their eyes. The strong and compact 
appearance of the cottage, formed in so very short a space, 
and by such a being, and the superior skill which he 
displayed in mechanics, and in other arts, gave suspi- 
cion to the surrounding neighbours. They insisted, 
that, if he was not a phantom, — an opinion which was now 
abandoned, since he plainly appeared a being of blood 
and bone with themselves, — yet he must be in close league 
with the invisible world, and have chosen that sequester- 
ed spot to carry on his communication with them undis- 
turbed. They insisted, though in a different sense from 
the philosopher’s application of the phrase, that he was 
never less alone than when alone ; and that from the 
heights which commanded the moor at a distance, passen- 
gers often discovered a person at work along with this 
dweller of the desert, who regularly, disappeared as soon 
as they approached closer to the cottage. Such a figure 
was also occasionally seen sitting beside him at the door 
walking with him in the moor, or assisting him in fetching 
water from his fountain. Earnscliff explained this phe- 
nomenon by supposing it to be the Dwarfs shadow. 

“ Deil a shadow has he,” replied Hobbie Elliot, who 
was a strenuous defender of the general opinion ; he’s 
ower far in wi’ the Auld Ane to have a shadow. Besides,” 
he argued more logically, whaever heard of a shadow 
that cam between a body and the sun 9 and this thing, be 
it what it will, is thinner and taller than the bodyhimsell 


THE BEACK DWARF. 


39 


and has been seen to come between him and the sun mair 
than anes or twice either.” 

These suspicions, which, in any other part of the coun- 
try, might have been attended with investigations a little 
inconvenient to the supposed wizard, were here only pro- 
ductive of respect and awe'. The recluse being seemed 
somewhat gratified by the marks of timid veneration with 
which an occasional passenger approached his dwelling, 
the look of startled surprise with which he surveyed his 
person and his premises, and the hurried step with which 
he pressed his retreat as he passed the awful spot. The 
boldest only stopped to gratify their curiosity by a hasty 
glance at the walls of his cottage and garden, and to apol- 
ogize for it by a courteous salutation, which the inmate 
sometimes deigned to return by a word or a nod. Earns- 
clifF often passed that way, and seldom without inquiring 
after the solitary inmate, who seemed now to have arrang- 
ed his establishment for life. 

It was impossible to engage him in any conversation on 
his own personal affairs ; nor was he communicative or 
accessible in talking on any other subject whatever, al- 
though he seemed to have considerably relented in the 
extreme ferocity of his misanthropy, or rather to be less 
frequently visited with the fits of derangement of which 
this was a symptom. No argument could prevail upon 
him to accept anything beyond the simplest necessaries, 
although much more was offered by Earnscliff out of char- 
ity, and by his more superstitious neighbours from other 
motives. The benefits of these last he repaid by ad- 
vice, when consulted (as at length he slowly was) on’ 
their diseases, or those of their cattle. He often furnish- 
ed them with medicines also, and seemed possessed, not 
only of such as were the produce of the country, but of 
foreign drugs. He gave these persons to understand that 
his name was Elshender the Recluse ; but his popular 
epithet soon came to be Canny Elshie, or the Wise Wight 
of Mucklestane-Moor. Some extended their queries be- 
yond their bodily complaints, and requested advice upon 
other matters, which he delivered with an oracular shrewd- 


40 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


ness that greatly confirmed the opinion of his possessing 
preternatural skill. The querists usually left some offer- 
ing upon a stone, at a distance from his dwelling ; if it 
was money, or any article wdfich did not suit him to ac- 
cept, he either threw it away, or suffered it to remain 
where it was without making use of it. On all oc- 
casions his manners were rude and unsocial ; and his 
words, in number, just sufficient to express his meaning 
as briefly as possible, and he shunned all communication 
that went a syllable beyond the matter in hand. When 
winter had passed away, and his garden began to afford 
him herbs and vegetables, he confined himself almost 
entirely to those articles of food. He accepted, notwith- 
standing, a pair of she-goats from Earnscliff, wdiich fed 
on the moor, and supplied him with milk. 

When Earnscliff found his gift had been received, he 
soon afterwards paid the hermit a visit. The old man 
was seated on a broad flat stone near his garden-door, 
which was the seat of science he usually occupied when 
disposed to receive his patients or clients. The inside of 
his hut, and that of his garden, he kept as sacred from 
human intrusion as the natives of Otaheite do their Morai ; 
—apparently he would have deemed it polluted by the 
step of any human being. When he shut himself up in 
his habitation, no entreaty could prevail upon him to make 
himself visible, or to give audience to any one whom- 
soever. 

Earnscliff had been fishing in a small river at some dis- 
tance. He had his rod in his hand, and his basket, filled 
with trout at his shoulder. He sat down upon a stone 
nearly opposite to the Dwarf, who, familiarized with bis 
})resence, took no farther notice of him than by elevating 
his huge misshapen head for the purpose of staring at 
him, and then again sinking it upon his bosom, as if in 
profound meditation. Earnscliff looked around him, and 
observed that the hermit had increased his accommoda- 
tions by the construction of a shed for the reception of 
his goats. 


THE BEACK DWARF. 


41 


You labour hard, Elshie,” he said, willing to lead this 
singular being into conversation. 

“ Labour,” re-echoed the Dwarf, “ is the mildest evil 
of a lot so miserable as that of mankind ; better to labour 
like me, than sport like you.” 

“ I cannot defend the humanity of our ordinary rural 

sports, Elshie, and yet” 

“ And yet,” interrupted the Dwarf, “ they are better 
than your ordinary business ; better to exercise idle and 
wanton cruelty on mute fishes than on your fellow-crea- 
tures. Yet why should I say so 9 Why should not the 
whole human herd butt, gore, and gorge upon each other, 
till all are extirpated but one huge and over-fed Behe- 
moth, and he, when he had throttled and gnawed the bones 
of all his fellows — he, when his prey failed him, to be 
roaring whole days for lack of food, and, finally, to die 
inch by inch of famine — it were a consummation worthy 
of the race !” 

“ Your deeds are better, Elshie, than your words,” an- 
swered EarnsclifF ; “ you labour to preserve the race 
whom your misanthropy slanders.” 

“ I do ; but why 9 — Hearken. You are one on whom 
I look with the least loathing, and I care not, if, contrary 
to my wont, I waste a few words in compassion to your 
infatuated blindness. If I cannot send disease into fam- 
ilies, and murrain among the herds, can 1 attain the same 
end so well as by prolonging the lives of those who can 
serve the purpose of destruction as effectually 9 — If Alice 
of Bower had died in winter, would young Ruthwin have 
been slain for her love the last spring 9 — Who thought 
of penning their cattle beneath the tower when the Red 
Riever of Westburnflat was deemed to be on his death- 
ijed 9 — My draughts, my skill recovered him. And, 
now, who dare leave his herd upon the lea without a 
watch, or go to bed without unchaining the sleuth-hound.^” 
“ I own,” answered EarnsclifF, “ you did little good 
to society by the last of these cures. But, to balance 
.he evil, there is my friend Hobbie, honest Hobbie of the 
4* VOL. 1 


i2 TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 

Heugh-foot, your skill relieved him last winter in a fever 
ihat might have cost him his life.” 

“ Thus think the children of clay in their ignorance,” 
said the Dwarf, smiling maliciously, “ and thus they speak 
in their folly. Have you marked the young cub of a 
wild-cat that has been domesticated, how sportive, how 
playful, how gentle, — but trust him with your game, your 
lambs, your poultry, his inbred ferocity breaks forth 5 he 
gripes, tears, ravages, and devours.” 

“ Such is the animal’s instinct,” answered EarnsclifF ; 
“ but what has that to do with Hobbie 9” 

“ It is his emblem — it is his picture,” retorted the Re- 
cluse. “ He is at present tame, quiet, and domesticated, 
for lack of opportunity to exercise his inborn propensi- 
ties ; but let the trumpet of war sound — let the young 
blood-hound snuff blood, he will be as ferocious as the 
wildest of his border ancestors that ever fired a helpless 
peasant’s abode. Can you deny, that even at present he 
often urges you to take bloody revenge, for an injury re- 
ceived when you were a boy 9” — Earnscliff started ; the 
Recluse appeared not to observe his surprise, and pro- 
ceeded — “ The trumpet will blow, the young blood-hound 
icill lap blood, and I will laugh and say. For this I have 
preserved thee !” He paused, and continued, — “ Such 
are my cures ; — their object, their purpose, perpetuating 
the mass of misery, and playing even in this desert my 
part in the general tragedy. Were you on your sick bed, 
1 might, in compassion, send you a cup of poison.” 

“ 1 am much obliged to you, Elshie, and certainly shall 
not fail to consult you with so comfortable a hope from 
your assistance.” 

“ Do not flatter yourself too far,” replied the Hermit, 
“ with the hope that I will positively yield to the frailty 
of pity. Why should 1 snatch a dupe, so well fitted to 
endure the miseries of life as you are, from the wretch- 
edness which his owm visions, and the villany of the world, 
are preparing for him 9 Why should I play the compas- 
sionate Indian, and, knocking out the brains of the captive 
with my tomahawk, at once spoil the three days’ amuse- 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


43 


ment of my kindred tribe, at the very moment when the 
brands were lighted, the pincers heated, the caldrons boil- 
ing, the knives sharpened, to tear, scorch, seethe, and 
scarify the intended victim 9” 

‘‘ A dreadful picture you present to me of life, Elshie, 
hut I am not daunted by it,” returned EarnsclifF. We 
are sent here, in one sense, to bear and to suffer ; but, in 
another, to do and to enjoy. The active day has its 
evening of repose ; even patient sufferance has its allevia- 
tions where there is a consolatory sense of duty dis- 
charged.” 

“ I spurn at the slavish and bestial doctrine,” said the 
Dwarf, his eyes kindling with insane fury, — I spurn at 
it as worthy only of the beasts that perish ; but 1 will 
waste no more words with you.” 

He rose hastily ; but ere he withdrew into the hut, he 
added, with great vehemence, ‘‘ Yet, lest you still think 
my apparent benefits to mankind flow from the stupid and 
servile source, called love of our fellow-creatures, know, 
that were there a man who had annihilated my soul’s 
dearest hope — who had torn my heart to mammocks, and 
seared my brain till it glowed like a volcano, and were 
that man’s fortune and life in my power as completely as 
this frail potsherd,” (he snatched up an earthen cup which 
stood beside him,) “ I would not dash him into atoms 
thus — ” (he flung the vessel with fury against the wall) — 
‘‘ No !” (he spoke more composedly, but with the utmost 
bitterness,) “ I would pamper him with wealth and power 
to inflame his evil passions, and to fulfil his evil designs ; 
he should lack no means of vice and villany ; he should 
be the centre of a whirlpool that itself should know nei- 
ther rest nor peace, but boil with unceasing fury, while it 
wrecked every goodly ship that approached its limits ! he 
should be an earthquake capable of shaking the very land 
in which he dwelt, and rendering all its inhabitants friend- 
less, outcast, and miserable — as I am !” 

The wretched being rushed into his hut as he uttered 
these last words, shutting the door with furious violence, 
and rapidly drawing two bolts, one after another, as if to 


44 


TALES or MY LANDLORD. 


exclude the intrusion of any one of that hated race, who 
had thus lashed his soul to frenzy. Earnscliff left the 
moor with mingled sensations of pity and horror, pon- 
dering what strange and melancholy cause could have re- 
duced to so miserable a state of mind, a man whose 
language argued him to be of rank and education much 
superior to the vulgar. He was also surprised to see how 
much particular information a person who had lived in 
that country so short a time, and in so recluse a manner, 
had been able to collect respecting the dispositions and 
private affairs of the inhabitants. 

‘‘ It is no wonder,” he said to himself, that with such 
extent of information, such a mode of life, so uncouth a 
figure, and sentiments so virulently misanthropic, this 
unfortunate should be regarded by the vulgar as in league 
with the Enemy of Mankind.” 


CHAPTER V. 

The bleakest rock upon the loneliest heath 
Feels, in its barrenness, some touch of spring ; 

And, in the April dew, or beam of May, 

Its moss and lichen freshen ajid revive ; 

And thus the heart, most sear’d to human pleasure. 

Melts at the tear, joys in the smile, of woman. 

Beaumont. 

As the season advanced, the weather became more 
genial, and the Recluse was more frequently found occu- 
pying the broad flat stone in the front of his mansion. 
As he sat there one day, about the hour of noon, a party 
of gentlemen and ladies, well mounted, and numerously 
attended, swept across the heath at some distance from his 
dwelling. Dogs, hawks, and led-horses, swelled the retinue 
and the air resounded at intervals with the cheer of the 
hunters, and the sound of horns blown by the attendants. 
The Recluse was about to retire into his mansion at the 


THE BLACK DWARF. 45 

# 

sight of a train so joyous, when three young ladies, with 
their attendants, who had made a circuit, and detached 
themselves from their party, in order to gratify their curi- 
osity by a sight of the Wise Wight of Mucklestane-Moor 
came suddenly up ere he could effect his purpose. The 
first shrieked, and put her hands before her eyes, at sight 
of an object so unusually deformed. The second, with 
a hysterical giggle, which she intended should disguise 
her terrors, asked the Recluse whether ’he could tell their 
fortune. The third, who was best mounted, best dressed, 
and incomparably the best-looking of the three, advanced, 
as if to cover the incivility of her companions. 

“We have lost the right path that leads through these 
morasses, and our party have gone forw'ard without us,” 
said the young lady. “ Seeing you, father, at the door 
of your house, we have turned this way to” 

“ Hush !” interrupted the Dwarf : “so young and al 
ready so artful 9 You came — you know you came, to 
exult in the consciousness of your own youth, wealth, and 
beauty, by contrasting them with age, poverty, and de- 
formity. It is a fit employment for the daughter of your 
father, but O how unlike the child of your mother !” 

“ Did you, then, know my parents, and do you know 
me 9” 

“ Yes ; this is the first time you have crossed my wak- 
ing eyes, but I have seen you in my dreams.” 

“ Your dreams 9” 

“ Ay, Isabel Vere. What hast thou, or thine, to do 
with my waking thoughts 9” 

“ Your waking thoughts, sir,” said the second of Miss 
Vere’s companions, with a sort of mock gravity, “ are 
fixed, doubtless, upon wisdom ; folly can only intrude on 
your sleeping moments.” 

“ Over thine,” retorted the Dwarf, more splenetically 
than became a philosopher, or hermit, “ folly exercises 
an unlimited empire, asleep or awake.” 

“ Lord bless us !” said the lady, “ he’s a prophet, sure 
enough.” 


4^6 TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 

“ As surely,” continued the Recluse, “ as thou art a 
woman. — A woman ! — I should have said a lady — a fine 
lady. You asked me to tell your fortune — it is a simple 
one ; an endless chase through life after follies not worth 
catching, and, when caught, successively thrown away — 
a chase, pursued from the days of tottering infancy to 
those of old age upon his crutches. Toys and merry- 
makings in childhood — love and its absurdities in youth — 
spadille and bas^in age, shall succeed each other as ob- 
jects of pursuit — flowers and butterflies in spring — butter- 
flies and thistle-down in summer — withered leaves in 
autumn and winter — all pursued, all caught, all flung 
aside. — Stand apart ; your fortune is said.” 

“ All caught, however,” retorted the laughing fair one, 
who was a cousin of Miss Vere ; “ that’s something, 
Nancy,” she continued, turning to the timid damsel who 
had first approached the Dwarf : “ will you ask your 
fortune 9” 

“ Not for worlds,” said she, drawing back, “ I have 
heard enough of yours.” 

“ Well, then,” said Miss Ilderton, offering money to 
the Dwarf, “ I’ll pay for mine, as if it were spoken by 
an oracle to a princess.” 

‘‘ Truth,” said the Soothsayer, “ can neither be bought 
nor sold,” and he pushed back her proftered offering with 
morose disdain. 

“ Well, then,” said the lady, “ I’ll keep my money, 
Mr. Elshender, to assist me in the chase I am to pursue.” 

“ You will need it,” replied the cynic ; “ without it, 
few pursue successfully, and fewer, are themselves pur- 
sued. — Stop !” he said to Miss Vere, as her companions 
moved off, ‘‘ with you I have more to say. You have 
what your companions would wish to have, or be thought 
to have, — beauty, wealth, station, accomplishments.” 

Forgive my following my companions, father ; I am 
proof both to flattery and fortune-telling.” 

“ Stay,” continued the Dwarf, with his hand on her 
horse’s rein, “ I am no common soothsayer, and I am no 
flatterer. All the advantages I have detailed, all and 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


47 


each of them have their corresponding evils — unsuccess- 
ful love, crossed affections, the gloom of a convent, oi 
an odious alliance. I, who wish ill to all mankind, ( an- 
not wish more evil to you, so much is your course of ife 
crossed by it.” 

“ And if it be, father, let me enjoy the readiest solace 
of adversity while prosperity is in my power. You are 
old ; you are poor ; your habitation is far from human 
aid, were you ill or in want ; your situation, in many re- 
spects, exposes you to the suspicions of the vulgar, which 
.are too apt to break out into actions of brutality. Let 
me think I have mended the lot of one human being ! 
Accept of such assistance as 1 have power to offer ; do 
this for my sake, if not for your own, that when these 
evils arise, which you prophesy perhaps too truly, I may 
not have to reflect, that the hours of my happier time 
have been passed altogether in vain.” 

The old man answered with a broken voice, and almost 
without addressing himself to the young lady, 

“ Yes, ’tis thus thou should’st think — ’tis thus thou 
should’st speak, if ever human speech and thought kept 
touch with each other ! They do not — they do not — Alas ! 
they cannot. And yet — wait here an instant — stir not 
till my return.” He went to his little garden, and return- 
ed with a half-blown rose. “ Thou hast made me shed 
a tear, the first which has wet my eyelids for many a 
year ; for that good deed receive this token of gratitude. 
It is but a common rose ; preserve it, however, and do 
not part with it. Come to me in your hour of adversity. 
Show me that rose, or but one leaf of it, were it wither- 
ed as my heart is — if it should be in my fiercest and wild- 
est movements of rage against a hateful world, still it will 
recall gentler thoughts to my bosom, and perhaps afford 
happier prospects to thine. But no message,” he ex- 
claimed, rising into his usual mood of misanthropy, — “ no 
message — no go-between ! Come thyself ; and the heart 
and the doors that are shut against every other earthly 
being, shall open to thee and to thy sorrows. And now 
pass on.” 


48 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


He let go the bridle-rein, and the young lady rode on, 
after expressing her thanks to this singular being, as well 
as her surprise at the extraordinary nature of his address 
would permit, often turning back to look at the Dwarf, 
who still remained at the door of his habitation, and watch- 
ed her progress over the moor towards her father’s castle 
of Ellieslaw, until the brow of the hill hid the party from 
his sight. 

The ladies, meantime, jested with Miss Vere on the 
strange interview they had just had with the far-famed 
Wizard of the Moor. “ Isabella has all the luck at home 
and abroad ! Her hawk strikes down the black-cock ; 
her eyes wound the gallant ; no chance for her poor com- 
panions and kinswomen ; even the conjuror cannot es- 
cape the force of her charms. You should, in compas- 
sion, cease to be such an engrosser, my dear Isabel, or 
at least set up shop and sell off all the goods you do not 
mean to keep for your own use.” 

“ You shall have them all,” replied Miss Vere, “ and 
the conjuror to boot, at a v’^ery easy rate.” 

“ No ! Nancy shall have the conjuror,” said Miss II- 
derton, “ to supply deficiencies ; she’s not quite a 
w’itch herself, you know.” 

“ Lord, sister,” answered the younger Miss Ilderton, 
“ what could I do with so frightful a monster I kept 
my eyes shut after once glancing at him ; and, I protest, 
1 thought I saw him still, though I winked as close as ever 
1 could.” 

“ That’s a pity,” said her sister ; “ ever while you 
live, Nancy, choose an admirer whose faults can be hid 
by winking at them — Well, then, I must take him myself, 
I suppose, and put him into mamma’s Japan cabinet, in 
order to show that Scotland can produce a specimen of 
mortal clay, moulded into a form ten thousand times 
uglier than the imaginations of Canton and Pekin, fertile 
as they are in monsters, have immortalized in porcelain.” 

“ There is something,” said Miss Vere, “ so melan- 
choly in the situation of this poor man, that I cannot enter 
mto your mirth, ‘Lucy, so readily as usual. If he has no 


Tin: JILACK DWARF. 


40 


resources, how is he to exist in this waste country, livings 
as lie does, at such a distance from mankinr' .^ and if he 
has the means of securing occasional assistance, will not 
the very suspicion that he is possessed of them, expose 
him to plunder and assassination by some of our unsettled 
neighbours 0” 

“ But you forget that they say he is a warlock,” said 
Nancy Ilderton. 

“ And, if his magic diabolical should fail him,” re- 
joined her sister, “ 1 would have him trust to his magic 
natural, and thrust his enormous head, and most preter- 
natural visage, out at his door or window, full in view oi 
the assailants. The boldest robber that ever rode would 
hardly bide a second glance of him. Well, I wish I had 
the use of that Gorgon head of his for only one half hour.” 

“ For what purpose, Lucy T’ said MissVere. 

“ O ! I would frighten out of the castle that dark, 
stiff, and stately Sir Frederick Langley, that is so great 
a favourite with your father, and so little a favourite of 
your’s. I protest. I shall be obliged to the Wizard as 
long as I live, if it were only for the half hour’s relief 
from that man’s company which we have gained by de- 
viating from the party to visit Elshie.” 

“ What would you say, then,” said Miss Vere, in a 
low tone, so as not to be heard by the younger sister, 
who rode before them, the narrow path not admitting of 
their moving all three abreast, — “ what would you say, 
my dearest Lucy, if it were proposed to you to endure 
his company for life 

“ Say 9 I would say JVh, no, no, three times, each 
^ouder than another, till they should hear me at Carlisle.” 

“ And Sir Frederick would say then, nineteen nay- 
says are half a grant.” 

“ That,” replied Miss Lucy, “ depends entirely on the 
manner in whicli the nay-says are said. Mine should 
have not one grain of concession in them, I promise you.” 

“ But if your father,” said Miss Vere, “ were to «ay 
— Thus do, or-^ — ’ 

5 VOL. I. 


50 


TALES OF MT LANDLORD. 


“ I would stand to the consequences of his or, were 
he the most cruel father that ever was recorded in ro- 
mance, to fill up the alternative.” 

“ And what if he threatened you with a Catholic aunt, 
an abbess, and a cloister 9” 

“ Then,” said Miss llderton, “ I would threaten him 
with a Protestant son-in-law, and be glad of an opportu- 
nity to disobey him for conscience sake. And now that 
Nancy is out of hearing, let me really say, I think you 
would be excusable before God and man for resisting 
this preposterous match by every means in your power. 
A proud, dark, ambitious man ; a caballer against the 
state ; infamous for his avarice and severity ; a bad son, 
a bad brother, unkind and ungenerous to all his relatives 
— Isabel, 1 would die rather than have him.”. 

“ Don’t let my father hear you give me such advice,” said 
MissVere, “or adieu, my dear Lucy,to Ellieslaw-Castle.” 

“ And adieu to Ellieslaw-Castle, with all my heart,” said 
her friend, “ if I once saw you fairly out of it, and set- 
tled under some kinder protector than he whom nature 
has given you. O, if my poor father had been in his 
former health, how gladly would he have received and 
sheltered you, till tliis ridiculous and cruel persecution 
were blown over !” 

“ Would to God it had been so, my dear Lucy !” an- 
swered Isabella ; “ but I fear, that, in your father’s 

weak state of health, he would be altogether unable to 
protect me against the means which would be immedi- 
ately used for reclaiming the poor fugitive.” 

“ I fear so, indeed,” replied Miss llderton ; “ but we 
will consider and devise something. Now that your fath- 
er and his guests seem so deeply engaged in some mys- 
terious plot, to judge from the passing and returning of 
messages, from the strange faces which appear and dis- 
appear without being announced by their names, from 
the collecting and cleaning of arms, and the anxious 
gloom and-bustle which seem to agitate every male in the 
castle, it may not be impossible for us (always in case 
matters be driven to extremity) to shape out some little 


THE ELACK DWARF. 


61 


supplemental conspiracy of our own. I hope the gen- 
tlemen have not kept all the policy to themselves ; and 
there is one associate tliat 1 would gladly admit to our 
counsel.” 

“ Not Nancy 

“ O, no !” said Miss Ilderton ; “ Nancy, though an 
excellent good girl, and fondly attached to you, would 
make a dull conspirator — as dull as Renault and all the 
other subordinate plotters in Venice Preserved. No ; 
this is a Jaffier, or Pierre, if you like the character bet- 
ter ; and yet, though I know I shall please you, I am 
afraid to mention his name to you, lest I vex you at the 
same time. Can you not guess 9 Something about an 
eagle and a rock — it does not begin with eagle in Eng- 
lish, but something very like it in Scotdh.” 

“ You cannot mean young Earnscliff, Lucy 9” said 
Miss Vere, blushing deeply. 

“ And whom else should I mean 9” said Lucy. ' 
“ Jaffiers and Pierres are very scarce in this country, I 
take it, though one could find Renaults and Bedamars 
enow.” 

“ How can you talk so wildly, Lucy ^ Your plays 
and romances have positively turned your brain. You 
know, that, independent of my father’s consent, without 
which I never will marry any one, and which, in the case 
you point at, would never be granted ; independent, too, 
of our knowing nothing of young EarnsclilPs inclinations, 
but by your own wild conjectures and fancies — besides 
all this, there is the fatal brawl !” 

“ When his father was killed *?” said Lucy. “ But 
that was very long ago ; and I hope we have outlived 
the time of bloody feud, when a quarrel was carried 
down between two families from father to son, like a 
Spanish game at chess, and a murder or two committed 
in every generation just to keep the matter from going to 
sleep. VVe do with our quarrels now-a-days as with our 
clothes ; cut them out for ourselves, and wear them out 
m our own day, and should no more think of resenting 


52 


TALKS or -MV -J.VNDLORD. 


our fathers’ feuds than of wearing their slashed doublets 
and trunk-hose.” 

“ You treat this far too lightly, Lucy,” answered Miss 
Vere. 

“ Not a bit, my dear Isabella,” said Lucy. “ Con- 
sider, your father, though present in the unhappy affray, 
is never supposed to have struck the fatal blow ; besides 
in former times, in case of mutual slaughter between 
clans, subsequent alliances were so far from being ex- 
cluded, that the hand of a daughter, or a sister, was the 
most frequent gage of reconciliation. You laugh at my 
skill in romance j but, I assure you, should your history 
be written, like that of many a less distressed and less 
deserving heroine, the well-judging reader would set you 
down for the lady and the love of Earnscliff, from the 
very obstacle which you suppose so insurmountable.” 

“ But these are not the days of romance, but of sad 
reality, for there stands the Castle of Ellieslaw.” 

“ And there stands Sir Frederick Langley at the gate, 
waiting to assist the ladies from their palfreys. I would 
as lief touch a toad ; J will disappoint him, and take old 
Horsington the groom for my master of the horse.” 

So saying, the lively young lady switched her palfrey 
forward, and passing Sir Frederick with a familiar nod 
as he stood ready to take her horse’s rein, she cantered 
on, and jumped into the arms of the old groom. Fain 
would Isabella have done the same had she dared ; but 
her father stood near, displeasure already darkening 
on a countenance peculiarly qualified to express the 
harsher passions, ancT she was compelled to receive the 
unwelcome assiduities of her detested suitor. 


THE BLACK DWARP. 


53 


CHAPTER VI. 


Let not us that are squires of the night’s body be called thieves of the day’s 
booty 3 let us be Diana’s foresters, gentlemen of the shade, minions of the 

Hmry IV. Part I. 

The Solitary had consumed the remaindf r of that day 
in which he had the interview with the young ladies, with- 
in the precincts of his garden. Evening again found him 
seated on his favourite stone. The sun setting red, and 
among seas of rolling clouds, threw a gloomy lustre over 
the moor, and gave a deeper purple to the broad outline 
of heathy mountains which surrounded this desolate spot. 
The Dwarf sat watching the clouds as they lowered above 
each other in masses of conglomerated vapours, and, as 
a strong lurid beam of the sinking luminary darted full 
on his solitary and uncouth figure, he might well have 
seemed the demon of the storm which was gathering, or 
some gnome summoned forth from the recesses of the 
earth by the subterranean signals of its approach. As he 
sat thus, with his dark eye turned towards the scowling 
and blackening heaven, a horseman rode rapidly up to 
him, and stopping, as if to let his horse breathe for an 
instant, made a sort of obeisance to the anchoret, with 
an air betwixt effrontery and embarrassment. 

The figure of the rider was thin, tall and slender, but 
remarkably athletic, bony, and sinewy ; like one who had 
all his life followed those violent exercises which prevent 
the human form from increasing in bulk, while they harden 
and confirm by habit its muscular powers. His face, sharp- 
featured, sun-burnt, and freckled, had a sinister expression 
of violence, impudence, and cunning, each of which seem- 
ed alternately to predominate over the others. Sandy- 
coloured hair, and reddish eyebrows, from under which 
5* VOL. I. 


64 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


looked forth his sharp grey eyes, completed the inauspi- 
cious outline of the horseman’s physiognomy. He had 
pistols in his holsters, and another pair peeped from his 
belt, though he had taken some pains to conceal them by 
buttoning h .s doubtlet. He wore a rusted steel head- 
piece ; a buff jacket of rather an antique cast ; gloves, of 
which that for the right hand was covered with small 
scales of iron, like an ancient gauntlet ; and a long broad- 
sword completed his equipage. 

“ So,” sa d the Dwarf, “ rapine and murder once 
more on hoiseback.” 

“ On horseback said the bandit ; ay, ay, El- 
shie, your leech-craft has set me on the bonny bay again.” 

“ And all those promises of amendment which you 
made during your illness forgotten *]” continued Elshen- 
der. 

“ All clear away with the water-saps and panada,” 
returned the unabashed convalescent. “Ye ken, Elshie, 
for they say ye are weel acquent wi’ the gentleman, 

* When the devil was sick, the devil a monk would be, 

When the devil was well, the devil a monk was he.' " 

“ Thou say’st true,” said the Solitary ; “ as well di- 
vide a wolf from his appetite for carnage, or a raven from 
her scent of slaughter, as thee from thy accursed pro- 
pensities.” 

“ Why, what would you have me to do 9 It’s born 
with me — lies in my very blude and bane. Why, man, 
the lads of Westburnflat, for ten lang descents, have 
been reivers and lifters. They have all drunk hard, lived 
high, taking deep revenge for light offence, and never 
wanted gear for the winning.” 

“ Right ; and thou art as thorough-bred a wolf,” said 
the Dwarf, “ as ever leaped a lamb-fold at night. On 
what hell’s errand art thou bound now 

“ Can your skill not guess 9” 

“ Thus far I know,” said the Dwarf, “ that thy pur- 
pose is bad, thy deed will be worse, and the issue worst 
of all.” 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


55 


“ And you like me the better for it, Father Elshie, 
eh ?” said Westburnflat ; “ you always said you did.” 

“ I have cause to like all,” answered the Solitary, 
“ that are scourges to their fellow-creatures, and thou art 
a bloody one.” 

“ No — I say not guilty to that — never bluidy unless 
there’s resistance, and that sets a man’s bristles up, ye ken. 
And this is nae great matter, after a’ ; just to cut the 
comb of a young cock that has been crawing a little ower 
crousely.” 

“ Not young Earnscliff 9” said the Solitary, with some 
emotion. 

“ No ; not young Earnscliff — not young Earnscliff 
yet ; but his time may come, if he will not take warning, 
and get him back to the burrow-town that he’s fit for, 
and no keep skelping about here, destroying the few deer 
that are left in the country, and pretending to act as a 
magistrate, and writing letters to the great folk at Auld 
Reekie about the disturbed state of the land. Let him 
take care o’ himsell.” 

“ Then it must be Hobbie of the Heugh-foot,” said 
Elshie. “ What harm has the lad done you 

“ Harm ! nae great harm ; but ] hear he says I staid 
away from the Ba’spiel on Fastern’s E’en, for fear of 
him ; and it was only for fear of. the Country Keeper, 
for there was a warrant against me. I’ll stand Hobble’s 
feud, and a’ his clans. But it’s, not so much for that, as 
to gie him a lesson not to let his tongue gallop ower free- 
ly about his betters. I trow he will hae lost the best pen- 
feather o’ his wing before to-morrow morning. Farewell, 
Elshie ; there’s some canny boys waiting for me down 
amang the shaws, owerby ; I will see you as I come 
back, and bring ye a blithe tale in return for your leech 
craft.” 

Ere the Dwarf could collect himself to reply, the 
Reiver of Westburnflat set spurs to his horse. The an- 
imal, starting at one of the stones which lay scattered 
about, flew from the path. The rider exercised his spurs 
without moderation or mercy The horse became fiiri- 


56 


TAXES OF MY XANDXORD. 


ous, reared, kicked, plunged and bolted like a deer, with 
all his four feet off the ground at once. It was in vain ; 
the unrelenting rider sat as if he had been a part of the 
horse which he bestrode ; and, after a short but furious 
^ ontest, compelled the subdued animal to proceed upon 
the path at a rate which soon carried him out of sight oi 
the Solitary. 

“ That villain,” exclaimed the Dwarf — “ that cool- 
blooded, hardened, unrelenting ruffian, — that wretch, 
whose every thought is infected with crimes, — has thewes 
und sinews, limbs, strength, and activity enough to com- 
j)el a nobler animal than himself to carry him to the 
])lace where he is to perpetrate his wickedness ; while I, 
iiad 1 the weakness to wish to put his wretched victim on 
liis guard, and to save the helpless family, would see 
iny good intentions frustrated by the decrepitude which 
chains me to the spot. — Why should I wish it were pth- 
crwise 9 What have my screech-owl voice, my hideous 
form, and my misshapen features, to do with the fairer 
workmanship of nature 9 Do not men receive even my 
benehts with shrinking horror and ill-suppressed disgust 
And why should I interest myself in a lace which ac- 
' Ounts me a prodigy and an outcast, and which has treat- 
ed me as such 9 No ; by all the ingratitude which I have 
reaped— by all the wrongs which I have sustained — by 
my imprisonment, my stripes, my chains, I will wrestle 
down my feelings of rebellious humanity ! I will not be 
the fool I have been, to swerve frojn my principles when- 
ever there was an appeal, forsooth, to my feelings; as if I, 
towards whom none show sympathy, ought to have sym- 
pathy with any one. Let Destiny drive forth her scythed 
ear through the overwhelmed and tremoling mass of hu- 
manity ! Shall I be the idiot to throw this decrepit form, 
’his misshapen lump of mortality, under her wheels, that 
'he Dwarf, the Wizard, the Hunch-back, may save from 
destruction some fair form or some active frame, and all 
:he world clap their hands at the exchange 9 No, never ! 
— And yet this Elliot — this Hobbie, so young and gal- 
lant, so frank, so — I will think of it no longer. 1 cannot 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


57 


aid him if I would, and I am resolved — firmly resolved, 
that I w'ould not aid him, if a wish were the pledge of 
his safety !” 

Having thus ended his soliloquy, he retreated into his 
hut for shelter from the storm which was fast approach- 
ing, and now began to burst in large and heavy drops of 
rain. The last rays of the sun now disappeared entire- 
ly, and two or three claps of distant thunder followed 
each other at brief intervals, echoing and re-echoing 
among the range of heathy fells like the sound of a dis- 
tant engagement. 


CHAPTER VII. 

Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be tom ! — 

» * M ^ 

Return to thy dwelling I’all lonely, return ; 

For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, 

And a wild mother scream o’er her famishing brood. 

Campbell. 

The night continued sullen and stormy ; but 
morning rose as if refreshed by the rains. Even the 
Mucklestane-Moor, with its broad bleak swells of barren 
grounds, interspersed with marshy pools of water, seem- 
ed to smile under the serene influence of the sky, just as 
good-humour can spread a certain inexpressible charm 
over the plainest human countenance. The heath was 
in its thickest and deepest bloom. The bees, which the 
Solitary had added to his rural establisnment, were abroad 
and on the wing, and filled the air with the murmurs of 
their industry. As the old man crept out of his little 
hut, his two she-goats came to meet him, and licked his 
hands in gratitude for the vegetables with which he sup- 
plied them from his garden. “ You, at least,” he said, 
you, at least, see no differences in form which can alter 
y'our feelings to a benefactor — to you, the finest shape 


58 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


that ever statuary moulded would be an object of indif- 
ference or of alarm, should it present itself instead of 
the misshapen trunk to whose services you are accustom- 
ed. While I was in the world, did I ever meet with 
such a return of gratitude 9 No ; the domestic whom I 
had bred from infancy, made mouths at me as he stood 
behind my chair ; the friend whom 1 had supported with 
my fortune, and for whose sake 1 had even stained — (he 
stopped with a strong convulsive shudder,) even he 
thought me more fit for the society of lunatics — for their 
disgraceful restraints — for their cruel privations, than for 
communication with the" rest of humanity. Hubert alone 
— and Hubert too will one day abandon me. All are of 
a piece, one mass of wickedness, selfishness, and ingrat- 
itude — ‘Wretches, who sin even in their devotions ; and of 
such hardness of heart, that they do not, without hypoc- 
risy, even thank the Deity himself for his warm sun and 
pure air.” 

As he was plunged in these gloomy soliloquies, he 
heard the tramp of a horse on the other side of his in- 
closure, and a strong clear bass voice, singing with the 
liveliness inspired by a ]ight heart. 

Canny Hobbie Elliot, Canny Hobbie now, 

Canny Hobbie Elliot, Fse gang- alang wi' you. 

At the same moment, a large deer greyhound sprung 
over the hermit’s fence. It is well known to the sports- 
men in these wilds, that the appearance and scent of the 
goat so much resemble those of their usual objects of 
chase, that the best-broke greyhounds will sometimes fly 
upon them. The dog in question instantly pulled down 
and throttled one of the hermit’s she-goats, while Hob- 
bie Elliot, who came up and jumped from his horse for 
the purpose, was unable to extricate the harmless animal 
from the fangs of his attendant, until it was expiring. 
The Dwarf eyed, for a few moments, the convulsive 
starts of his dying favourite, until the poor goat stretcnea 
out her limbs with the twitches and shivering fit of the 
last agony. He then started into an excess of frenzy 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


59 


and, unsheathing a long sharp knife, or dagger, which he 
wore under his coat, he was about to launch it at the dog, 
when Hobbie, perceiving his purpose, interposed, and 
caught hold of his hand, exclaiming, “ Let a be the 
hound, man — let a be the hound ! — na, na, Killbuck 
maunna be guided that gate, neither.” 

Th^ Dwarf turned his rage on the young farmer ; and, 
by a sudden effort, far more powerful than Hobbie ex- 
pected from such a person, freed his wrist from his grasp, 
and offered the dagger at his heart. All this was done 
in the twinkling of an eye, and the incensed Recluse 
rniglit have completed his vengeance by plunging the 
weapon in Elliot’s bosom, had he not been checked by 
an internal impulse which made him hurl the knife to a 
distance. 

“ No,” he exclaimed, as he thus voluntarily deprived 
himsel of the means of gratifying his rage ; ‘‘ not again 
— not again !” 

Hobbie retreated a step or two in great surprise, dis- 
composure, and disdain, at having been placed in such 
danger by an object apparently so contemptible. 

“ The deil’s in the body for strength and bitterness !” 
were the first words that escaped him, which he followed 
up with an apology for the accident that had given rise 
to their disagreement. “ I am no justifying Killbuck 
a’thegither neither, and I am sure it is as vexing to me as 
to you, Elshie, that the mischance should hae happened ; 
but I’ll send you twa goats and twa fat gimmers, man, to 
make a’ straight again. A wise man like you, shouldna 
bear malice against a poor dumb thing ; ye see that a 
goat’s like first-cousin to a deer, sae he acted but accord- 
ing to his nature after a’. Had it been a pet-lamb there 
wad hae been mair to be said. Ye suld keep sheep, 
Elshie, and no goats, where there’s sae mony deer-hounds 
about — but I’ll send ye baith.” 

“ Wretch !” said the Hermit, ‘‘ your cruelty has de- 
stroyed one of the only creatures ir. existence that would 
look on me with kindness !” 


60 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


“ Dear Elshie,” answered Hobble, “ I’m wae ye suld 
liae cause to say sae ; I’m sure it wasna wi’ my will. And 
yet, it’s true, 1 should hae minded your goats, and coupled 
up the dogs. I’m sure I would rather they had worried the 
primest wether in my faulds. — Come, man, forget and for- 
gie. I’m e’en as vexed as ye can be — But I am a bride- 
groom, ye see, and that puts a’ things out o’ my head, 
f think. There’s the marriage-dinner, or gude part 
o’t, that my twa brithers are bringing on a sled round 
by the Riders’ Slack, three goodly bucks as ever ran on 
Dallomlea, as the sang says ; they couldna come the 
straight road for the saft grund. I wad send ye a bit 
venison, but ye wadnatakeit weel maybe, for Killbuck 
catched it.” 

During this long speech, in which the good-natured 
Borderer, endeavoured to propitiate the offended Dwarf 
by every argument he could think of, he heard him with 
his eyes bent on the ground, as if in the deepest medita- 
tion, and at length broke forth — “ Nature — yes ! it is 
indeed in the usual beaten path of Nature. The strong 
gripe and throttle the weak ; the rich depress and de- 
spoil the needy ; the happy (those who are idiots enough 
to think themselves happy) insult the misery and diminish 
the consolation of the wretched. — Go hence, thou who 
hast contrived to give an additional pang to the most mis- 
erable of human beings — thou who hast deprived me of 
what I half considered as a source of comfort. Go 
hence, and enjoy the happiness prepared for thee at 
home 1” 

“ Never stir,” said Hobbie, “ if I wadna take you 
wi’ me, man, if ye wad but say it wad divert ye to be at 
the bridal on Monday. There will be a hundred strap- 
ping Elliots to ride the brouze — the like’s no been seen 
sin’ the days of auld Martin of the Preakin-tower — I 
wad send the sled for ye wi’ a canny powney.” 

“ Is it to me you propose once more to mix in the so- 
ciety of the common herd ?” said the Recluse, with an 
air of deep disgust. 

Commons !” retorted Hobbie, nae siccan connmons 
neither ; the Elliots hae been lang kend a gentle race.” 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


61 


“ Hence ! begone !” reiterated the Dwarf ; “ may 
the same evil luck attend thee that thou hast left behind 
with me ! If I go not with you myself, see if you can 
escape what my attendants, Wrath and Misery, have 
brought to thy threshold before thee.” 

“ I wish ye wadna speak that gate,” said Hobbie. 

Ye kenyoLirsell, Elshie, naebody judges you to be ower 
canny ; now, I’ll tell ye just ae word for a’ — ye hae 
spoken as muckle as wussing ill to me and mine ; now, if 
ony mischance happen to Grace, which God forbid, or to 
mysell,or to the poor dumb tyke ; or if I be skaithed 
and injured in body, gudes, or gear. I’ll no forget wha it 
is that it’s owing to.” 

“ Out, hind !” exclaimed the Dwarf ; “ home ! home 
to your dwelling, and think on me when you find what 
has befallen there.” 

“ Aweel, aweel,” said Hobbie, mounting his horse, 
“ It serves naething to strive wi’ cripples, they are aye 
cankered ; but I’ll just tell ye ae thing, neighbour, that, 
if things be otherwise than weel wi’ Grace Armstrong, 
I’se gie you a scouther if there be a tar-barrel in the five 
parishes.” 

So saying, he rode off ; and Elshie, after looking at 
him with a scornful and indignant laugh, took spade and 
mattock, and occupied himself in digging a grave for his 
deceased favourite. 

A low whistle, and the words, “Hisht, Elshie, hisht!” 
disturbed him in this melancholy occupation. He look- 
ed up, and the Red Reiver of Westburnflat was before 
him. Like Banquo’s murderer, there was blood on his 
face, as well as upon the rowels of his spurs, and the 
sides of his over-ridden hor^. 

How now, ruffian 9” demanded the Dwarf, “ is 
thy job chared 9” 

“ Ay, ay, doubt not that, Elshie,” answered the free- 
booter ; “ when I ride, my foes may moan. They have 
had mair light than comfort at the Heugh-foot this morn- 

6 VOL. I. 


62 


TALES OE MY LANDLORD. 


ing ; there’s a toom byre and a wide, and a wail and a 
cry for the bonny bride.” 

“ The bride V* 

“ Aye ; Charlie Cheat-the-Woodie, as we ca’ him, 
that’s Charlie Foster of Tinning Beck, has promised to 
keep her in Cumberland till the blast blaw by. She 
saw me, and kend me in the splore, for the mask 
fell frae my face for a blink. I am thinking it wad con- 
cern my safety, if she were to come back here, for there’s 
mony o’ the Elliots, and they band weel thegither for 
right or wrang. Now, what I chiefly come to ask your 
rede in, is, how to make her sure 9” 

‘‘ Would’st thou murder her, then 
“ Umph ! no, no ; that I would not do, if I could help 
it. But they say they can whiles get folk cannily away 
to the plantations from some of the out-ports, and some- 
thing to boot for them that brings a bonny wench. 
They’re wanted beyond seas thae female cattle, and 
they’re no that scarce here. But I think o’ doing better 
for this lassie. There’s a leddy, that, unless she be a’ 
the better bairn, is to be sent to foreign parts whether she 
will or no ; now, I think of sending Grace to wait on her — 
she’s a bonny lassie. Bobbie will hae a merry morning 
when he comes hame, and misses baith bride and gear.^’‘ 
“ Ay ; and do you not pity him T’ said the Recluse. 
“Wad he pity me were I gaeing up the Castle-hill at 
Jeddart"]* And yet I rue something for the bit lassie ; 
but he’ll get anither, and little skaith dune — ane is as 
gude as anither. And now, you that like to hear o’ 
splores, heard ye ever o’ a better ane than I hae had this 
morning 9” 

“ Air, ocean, and fire,” ^aid the Dwarf, speaking to 
himself, “ the earthquake, the tempest, the volcano, are 
all mild and moderate, compared to the wrath of man. 
And what is this fellow, but one more skilled than others 
in executing the end of his existence ^ — Hear me, felon, 
go again where I before sent thee.” 

* The place of execution at that ancient burgh, where many of VVestburn 
flat’s profession have made their fined exit. 


THE BXACK DWARF. 


6.3 


“To the steward 9” 

“ Ay ; and tell him, Elshender the Recluse commands 
him to give thee gold. But, hear me, let the maiden be 
discharged free and uninjured ; return her to her friends, 
and let her swear not to discover thy villany.” 

“ Swear 9” said Westburnflat ; “ but what if she 
break her aith 9 Women are not famous for keeping their 
plight. A wise man like you should ken that. — And un- 
injured — wha kens what may happen were she to be left 
lang at Tinning Beck 9 Charlie Cheat-the-Woodie is a 
rough customer. But if the gold could be made up to 
twenty pieces, I think I could insure her being wi’ her 
friends within the twenty-four hours.” 

The Dwarf took his tablets from his pocket, marked a 
line on them, and tore out the leaf. “ There,” he said, 
giving the robber the leaf — “ But, mark me ; thou know- 
est I am not to be fooled by thy treachery ; if thou darest 
to disobey my directions, thy wretched life, be sure, shall 
answer it.” 

“ I know,” said the fellow, looking down, “ that you 
have power on earth, however you came by it ; you can 
do what nae other man can do, baith by physic and fore- 
sight ; and the gold is shelled down when ye command, 
as fast as 1 have seen the ask-keys fall in a frosty morn- 
ing in October. I will not disobey you.” 

“ Begone, then, and relieve me of thy hateful presence.” 

The robber set spurs to his horse, and rode off with- 
out reply. 

Hobbie Elliot had, in the meanwhile, pursued his jour- 
ney rapidly, harassed by those oppressive and indistinct 
fears that all was not right, which men usually term a pre- 
sentiment of misfortune. Ere he reached the top of the 
bank from which he could look down on his own habita- 
tion, he was met by his nurse, a person then of great 
consequence in all families in Scotland, whether of the 
higher or middling classes. The connection between 
them and their foster-children was considered a tie far too 


04 


TALES or MY LANDLORD. 


dearly intimate to be broken ; and it usually happened, 
in the course of years, that the nurse became a resident 
in the family of her foster-son, assisting in the domestic 
duties, .and receiving all marks of attention and regard 
from the heads of the family. So soon as Hobbie re- 
cognized the figure of Annaple, in her red cloak and black 
hood, he could not help exclaiming to himself, “ What ill 
luck can hae brought the auld nu-rse sae far frae ha me, 
her that never stirs a gun-shot frae the door-stane for or- 
dinal’ — Hout, it will just be to get crane-berries, or 
whortle-berries, or some such stuff, out of the moss, to 
make the pies and tarts for the feast on Monday. — 1 can- 
not get the words of that cankered auld cripple deil’s- 
buckie out o’ my head — the least thing makes me dread 
some ill news. — O Killbuck, man ! were there nae deer 
and goats in the country besides, but ye behoved to gang 
and worry his creature, by a’ other folks’ 

By this time Annaple, with a brow like a tragic volume 
had hobbled towards him, and caught his horse by the 
bridle. The despair in her look was so evident as to 
deprive even him of the power of asking the cause. “ O 
my bairn !” she cried, “ gang na forward — gang na for- 
ward — it’s a sight to kill ony body, let alane thee.” 

“ In God’s name, what’s the matter*?” said the aston- 
ished horseman, endeavouring to extricate his bridle from 
the grasp of the old woman ; “ for Heaven’s sake, let me 
go and see what’s the matter.” 

‘‘ Ohon ! that I should have lived to see the day ! — 
The steading’s a’ in a low, and the bonny stack-yard ly- 
ing in the red ashes^ and the gear a’ driven away. But 
gang na forward ; it wad break your young heart, hinny, 
to see what my auld een has seen this morning.” 

“ And who has dared to do this *? Let go my bridle, 
Annaple — where is my grandmother — my sisters *? — • 
Where is Grace Armstrong *'? — God ! — the words of the 
warlock are knelling in. my ears !” 

He sprang from his horse to rid himself of Annaple’s 
interruption, and, ascending the hill with great speed, soon 
came in view of the spectacle with which sJie had threat 


THE JiEACK DWARF. 


65 


ened him. It was indeed a heart-breaking sight. The 
habitation which he had left in its seclusion, beside the 
mountain-stream, surrounded with every evidence oK 
rustic plenty, was now a wasted and blackened ruin. 
From amongst the shattered and sable walls the smoke 
continued to rise. The turf-stack, the barn-yard, the 
offices stocked with cattle, all the wealth of an upland 
cultivator of the period, of which poor Elliot possesseii 
no common share, had been laid waste or carried off in a 
single night. He stood a moment motionless, and then 
exclaimed, “ I am ruined — ruined to the ground ! — But 
curse on the warld’s gear — Had it not been the week be- 
fore the bridal — But 1 am nae babe, to sit down and greet 
about it. If I can but find Grace, and my grandmother, 
and my sisters weel, 1 can go to the wars in Flanders, as 
my gude-sire did, under the Bellenden banner, wi’ auld 
Buccleuch. At ony rate, 1 will keep up a heart, or they 
will lose theirs a’thegither.” 

Manfully strode Hobbie down the hill, resolved to sup- 
press his own despair, and administer consolation which 
he did not feel. The neighbouring inhabitants of the dell, 
particularly those of his own name, had already assem- 
bled. The younger part were in arms and clamorous for 
revenge, although they knew not upon whom ; the elder 
were taking measures for the relief of the distressed fam- 
ily. Annaple’s cottage, which was situated down the 
brook, at some distance from the scene of mischief, had 
been hastily adapted for the temporary accommodation of 
the old lady and her daughters, with such articles as had 
been contributed by the neighbours, for - very little was 
saved from the wreck. 

‘‘ Are we to stand here a’ day, sirs,” exclaimed one 
tall young njan, “ and look at the burnt wa’s of our kins- 
man’s>^ouse 9 Every wreath of the reek is a blast oi 
shame upon us ! Let us to horse, and take the chase. — 
Who has the nearest blood-hound 9” 

“ It’s young Earnscliff,” answered another ; “ and he’s 
been on and away wi’ six horse lang syne, to see if he 
can track them.” 

6* VOL. I. 


66 


TALES OF MY LANDLOED. 


‘‘ Let us follow him, then, and raise the country, and 
mak mair help as we ride, and then have at the Cumber- 
land reivers ! Take, burn, and slay — they that lie nearest 
us shall smart first.” 

“ Whisht ! baud your tongues, daft callants,” said an 
old man, “ ye dinna ken what ye speak about. What ! 
wad ye raise war atween twa pacificated countries 9” 

“ And what signifies deaving us wi’ tales about our 
fathers,” retorted the young man, “ if we’re to sit and see 
our friends’ houses burnt ower their heads, and no put 
out hand to revenge them Our fathers did not do that, 
I trow.” 

“ I am no saying onything against revenging Hobbie’s 
wrang, puir chield ; but we maun take the law wi’ us in 
thae days, Simon,” answered the more prudent elder. 

“ And, besides,” said another old man, “ I dinna be- 
lieve there’s ane now living that kens the lawful mode of 
following a fray across the Border. Tam o’ Whittram 
kend a’ about it, but he died in the hard winter.” 

Ay,” said a third, “ he was at the great gathering 
when they chased as far. as Thirlwall ; it was the year 
after the fight of Philiphaugh.” 

“ Hout,” exclaimed another of these discording coun- 
sellors, “ there’s nae great skill needed ; just put a light- 
ed peat on the end of a spear, or hay-fork, or siclike, and 
blaw a horn, and cry the gathering-word, and then it’s lawful 
to follow gear into England, and recover it by the strong 
hand, or to take gear frae some other Englishman, pro- 
viding ye lift nae mair than’s been lifted frae you. That’s 
the auld Border law, made at Dundrennan, in the days 
of the Black Douglas. Deil ane need doubt it. It’s 
as clear as the sun.” 

“ Come away, then, lads,” cried Simon, “ ^get to your 
geldings, and we’ll take auld Cuddy the muckle tasker 
vvi’ us ; he kens the value o’ the stock and plenishing 
that’s been lost. Hobbie’s stalls and stakes shall be fou 
again or night ; and if we canna big up the auld house 
sae soon, we’se lay an English ane as low as Heugh-foot is 
, —and that’s fair play, a’ the warld ower.” 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


67 


This animating proposal was received with great ap- 
plause by the younger part of the assemblage, when a 
whisper ran among them, “ There’s Hobbie himsell,puir 
fallow ! we’ll be guided by him.” 

The principal sufferer, having now reached the bottom 
of the hill, pushed on through the crowd, unable, from 
the tumultuous state of his feelings, to do more than re- 
ceive and return the grasps of the friendly hands by which 
his neighbours and kinsmen mutely expressed their sym- 
pathy in his misfortune. . While he pressed Simon of 
Hackburn’s hand, his anxiety at length found words. 
“ Thank ye, Simon — thank ye, neighbours — I ken what 

ye wad a’ say. But where are they ^ — Where are” 

He stopped as if afraid even to name the objects of his 
inquiry ; and with a similar feeling, his kinsmen, without 
reply, pointed to the hut, into which Hobbie precipitated 
himself with the desperate air of one who is resolved to 
know the worst at once. A general and powerful ex- 
pression of sympathy accompanied him. “ Ah, puir fal- 
low — puir Hobbie !” ♦ 

“ He’ll learn the warst o’t, now !” 

“ But I trust Earnscliff will get some speerings o’ the 
puir lassie.” 

Such w'ere the exclamations of the group, who, hav- 
ing no acknowledged leader to direct their motions, pas- 
sively awaited the return of the sufferer, and determined 
to be guided by his directions. 

The meeting between Hobbie and his family was in the 
highest degree affecting. His sisters threw themselves 
upon him, and almost stifled him with their caresses, as 
if to prevent his looking round to distinguish the absence 
of one yet more beloved. 

God help thee, my son ! He can help, when worldly 
trust is a broken reed.” — Such was the welcome of the 
matron to her unfortunate grandson. He looked eagerly 
round, holding two of his sisters by the hand, while the 
third hung about his neck — “ I see you — I count you — ^ 
my grandmother, Lilias, Jean, and Annot ; but where 
is ” (he hesitated, and then continued, as if with an 


68 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


effort) “ Wiiere is Grace Surely this is not a time to 
hide hersellfrae me — there’s nae time for daffing now.” 

“ O brother !” and “ our poor Grace !” was the on]}* 
answer his questions could procure, till his grandmother 
rose up, and gently disengaged him from the weeping 
girls, led him to a seat, and with the affecting serenity 
which sincere piety, like oil sprinkled on the waves, can 
throw over the most acute feelings, she said, “ My bairn, 
when thy grandfather was killed in the wars, and left me 
with six orphans around me with scarce bread to eat, or 
a roof to cover us, 1 had strength, not of mine own — but 
I had strength given me to say, the Lord’s will be done ! 
— My son, our peaceful house was last night broken into 
by moss-troopers, armed and masked ; they have taken 
and destroyed all, and carried off our dear Grace. Pray 
for strength to say. His will be done !” 

“ Mother ! mother ! urge me not — I cannot — not now 
— I am a sinful man, and of a hardened race. Masked 
— armed — Grace carried off ! Gie me my sword, and. 
my faflier’s knapsack — I will have vengeance, if I should 
go to the pit of darkness to seek it !” 

“ O my bairn, my bairn ! be patient under the rod. 
Who knows when He may lift his hand off from us 9 
Young Earnscliff, Heaven bless him, has ta’en the chase, 
with Davie of Stenhouse, and the first comers. I cried 
to let house and plenishing burn, and follow the reivers to 
recover Grace, and Earnscliff and his men were ower 
the Fell within three hours after the deed, God bless him ! 
he’s a i’eal Earnscliff ; he’s his father’s true son — a leal 
friend.” 

“ A true friend, indeed ; God bless him !” exclaimed 
Hobbie ; “ let’s on and away, and take the chase after 
him.” 

“ O, my child, before you run on danger, let me hear 
you but say. His will be done !” 

“ Urge me not, mother — not now.” He was rushing 
out, when, looking back, he observed his grandmother 
make a mute attitude of affliction. He returned hastily. 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


6fl 

threw himself into her arms, and said, “ Yes, mother, T 
can say. His will be done, since it will comfort you.’^ 

“ May He go forth — may He go forth with you, my 
dear bairn ; and O, may He give you cause to say on 
your return. His name be praised !” 

“ Farewell, mother ! — farewell, my dear sisters !” ex 
claimed Elliot, and rushed out of the house. 


CHAPTER VIIL 

Now horse and hattock, cried the laird, — 

Now horse and hattock, speedilie ; 

They that winna ride for Telfer's kye, 

Let them never look in the face o’ me. 

Border Ballad, 

“ Horse ! horse ! and spear !” exclaimed Hobbie to 
his kinsmen. Many a ready foot was in the stirrup ; and, 
while Elliot hastily collected arms and accoutrements, no 
easy matter in such a confusion, the glen resounded with 
the approbation of his younger friends. 

“ Ay, ay !” exclaimed Simon of Hackburn, “ that’s 
the gate to take it, Hobbie. Let women sit and greet at 
hame, men must do as they have been done by ; it’s the 
Scripture says’t.” 

“ Haud your tongue, sir,” said one of the seniors, stern- 
ly ; “ dinna abuse the Word that gate, ye dinna ken what 
ye speak about.” 

“ Hae ye ony tidings 9 — Hae ye ony speerings, Hob- 
bie ? — O, callants, dinna be ower hasty,” said old Dick 
of the Dingle. 

“ What signifies preaching to us e’enow T’ said Simon , 
‘‘ if ye canna make help yoursell, dinna keep back them 
that can.” 

‘‘ Whisht, sir ; wad ye take vengeance or ye ken wha 
has wrang’d ye 9” 


70 


TALES OF MY LANIJLORD. 


‘‘ D’ye think we dinna ken the road to England as weei 
as our fathers before us 9 — All evil comes out o’ there- 
away — it’s an auld. saying and a true ; and we’ll e’en 
away there, as if the devil was blawing us south.” 

“ We’ll follow the track o’ Earnscliff’s horses ower the 
waste,” cried one Elliot. 

“ I’ll prick them out through the blindest moor in the 
Border an there had been a fair held there the day be- 
fore,” said Hugh, the blacksmith of Ringleburn, “ for 1 
aye shoe his horse wi’ my ain hand.” 

“ Lay on the deer-hounds,” cried another ; “ where 
are they 

“ Hout, man, the sun’s been lang up, and the dew is 
afF the grund — the scent will never lie.” 

Hobbie instantly whistled on his hounds, which were 
roving about the ruins of their old habitation, and filling 
the air with their doleful howls.” 

“ Now,Killbuck,” said Hobbie, “ try thy skill this day” 
— and then, as if a light had suddenly broke on him, — 
“ that ill-faur’d goblin spak something o’ this ! He may 
ken mair o’t, either by villains on earth, or devils below — 
I’ll hae it frae him, if I should cut it out o’ his misshapen 
bouk wi’ my whinger.” He then hastily gave directions 
to his comrades : “ Four o’ ye, wi’ Simon, hand right 
forward to Graemes’-gap. If they’re English they’ll be 
for being back that way. The rest disperse by twasome 
and threesome through the waste, and meet me at the 
Try sting-pool. Tell my brothers, when they come up, 
to follow and meet us there. Poor lads, they will hae 
hearts weel nigh as sair as mine ; little think they what a 
sorrowful house they are bringing their venison to ! I’ll 
ride ower Mucklestane-Moor mysell.” 

“ And if 1 were you,” said Dick of the Dingle, ‘‘ I 
would speak to Canny Elshie. He can tell you whatever 
betides in this land, if he’s sae minded.” 

“ He shall tell me,” said Hobbie, who was Dusy putting 
his arms in order, “ what he kens o’ this night’s job, or 
1 shall right weel ken wherefore he does not ” 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


71 


‘‘ Ay, but speak him fair, my bonny man — speak him 
fair, Hobbie ; the like o’ him will no bear thrawing. 
They converse sae rnuckle wi’ thaa fractious ghaists and 
evil spirits, that it clean spoils their temper.” 

“ Let me alane to guide him,” answered Hobbie ; 

there’s that in my breast this day, that would ower-mais- 
ter a’ the warlocks on earth, and a’ the devils in hell.” 

And being now fully equipped, he threw himself on his 
horse, and spurred him at a rapid pace against the steep 
ascent. 

Elliot speedily surmounted the hill, rode down the other 
side at the same rate, crossed a wood, and traversed a 
long glen, ere he at length regained Mucklestane-Moor. 
As he was obliged, in the course of his journey, to relax 
his speed in consideration of the labour which his horse 
might still have to undergo, he had time to consider ma- 
turely in what manner he should address the Dwarf, in 
order to extract from him the knowledge which he sup- 
posed him to be in possession of concerning the authors 
of his misfortunes. Hobbie, though blunt, plain of speech, 
and hot of disposition, like most of his countrymen, was 
by no means deficient in the shrewdness which is also 
their characteristic. He reflected, that from what he had 
observed on the memorable night when the Dwarf was 
first seen, and from the conduct of that mysterious being 
ever since, he was likely to be rendered even more ob- 
stinate in his sullennesss by threats and violence. 

“ I’ll speak him fair,” he said, “ as auld Dickon ad- 
vised me. Though folk say he has a league wi’ Satan, 
he canna be sic an incarnate devil as no to take some pity 
in a case like mine ; and folk threep he’ll whiles do good, 
charitable sort o’ things. I’ll keep my heart doun as weel 
as I can, and stroke him wi’ the hair ; and if the warst 
come to the warst, it’s but wringing the head o’ him about 
at last.” 

In this disposition of accommodation he approached 
the hut of the Solitary. 

The old man was not upon his seat of audience, nor 
could Hobbie perceive him in his garden or inclosures. 


72 


TALES OF MY LANDLOlin. 


He’s gotten into his very Keep,” said Hobbie, may- 
be to be out o’ the gate ; but I’se pu’ it doun about his 
lugs, if I canna win at him otherwise.” 

Having thus communed with himself, he raised his 
voice, and invoked Elshie in a tone as supplicating as his 
conflicting feelings would permit. “ Elshie, my gude 
friend !” No reply. “ Elshie, canny Father Elshie !” 
'J'he Dwarf remained mute. “ Sorrow be in the crooked 
carcass of thee !” said the Borderer between his teeth, 
and then again attempting a soothing tone ; “ good Fa- 
ther Elshie, a most miserable creature desires some coun- 
sel of your wisdom.” 

“ The better !” answered the shrill and discordant 
voice of the Dwarf through a very small window, resem- 
bling an arrow-slit, which he had constructed near the 
door of his dwelling, and through which he could see any 
one who approached it, without the possibility of their 
looking in upon him. 

“ The better !” said Hobbie impatiently ; ‘‘ what is 
the better, Elshie Do you not hear me tell you I am 
the most miserable wretch living 7” 

“ And do you not hear me tell you it is so much the * 
better 1 and did I n6t tell you this morning, when you 
thought yourself so happy, what an evening was coming 
upon you T’ 

“ That ye did e’en,” replied Hobbie, “ and that gars 
me come to you for advice now ; they that foresaw the 
trouble maun ken the cure.” 

“ 1 know no cure for earthly trouble,” returned the 
Dwarf ; “ or, if I did, why should I help others, when 
none hath aided me Have I not lost wealth, that would 
have bought all thy barren hills a hundred times over 9 
rank, to which thine is as that of a peasant society, 
where there was an interchange of all that was amiable — 
of all that was intellectual 9 Have I not lost all this !■ 
Am I not residing here, the veriest outcast on the face of 
Nature, in the most hideous and most solitary of her re- 
treats, myself more hideous than all that is around me 
And whv should other worms complain to me when they 


THE BEACK DWARP. 


73 


are trodden on, since I am myself lying crushed and 
writhing under the chariot-wheel 9” 

“Ye may have lost all this,” answered Hobbie, in the 
biuerness of emotion ; land and friends, goods and 
gear ; ye may hae lost them a’, — but ye ne’er can hae 
sae sair a heart as mine, for ye ne’er lost nae Grace Arm- 
strong. And now my last hopes are gane, and 1 shall 
ne’er see Jier mair.” 

This he said in the tone of deepest emotion — and there 
followed a long pause, for the mention of diis bride’s name 
had overcome the more angry and irritable feelings of 
poor Hobbie. Ere he had again addressed the Solitary, 
the bony hand and long fingers of the latter, holding a 
large leathern bag, was thrust forth at the small window, 
•ind as it unclutch’d the burden, and let it drop wdth a 
clang upon the ground, his harsh voice again addressed 
Elliot. 

“ There — there lies a salve for every human ill ; so, 
at least, each human wretch readily thinks. — Begone ; 
return twice as wealthy as thou wert before yesterday, 
and torment me no more with questions, complaints, or 
thanks ; they are alike odious to me.” 

“ It is a’ gowd, by Heaven !” said Elliot, having glanced 
at the contents ; and then again addressing the Hermit, 
“ Muckle obliged for your good-will ; and I wad blithely 
gie you a bond for some o’ the siller, or a wadset ower 
the lands o’ Wideopen. But I dinna ken, Elshie ; to be 
free wi’ you, I dinna like to use siller unless I kend it 
was decently come by ; and maybe it might turn into 
sclate-stanes, and cheat some puir man.” 

“ Ignorant idiot !” retorted the Dwarf, “ the trash is 
as genuine poison as ever was dug out of the bowels of 
the earth. Take it — use it, and may it thrive with you 
as it hath done with me !” 

“ But I tell you,” said Elliot, “ it wasna about the gear 
that I was consulting you,* — it was a braw barn-yard, 
doubtless, and thirty head of finer cattle there vverena on 
this. side of the Cat-rail ; but let the gear gang, — if ye 
7 VOL. T. 


74 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


could but gie me speerings o’ puir Grace, I wad be 
content to be your slave for life, in onything that dinna 
touch my salvation. O Elshie, speak, man, speak !” 

“ Well, then,” answered the Dwarf, as if worn out by 
his importunity, “ since thou hast not enough of woes ol 
thine own, but must needs seek to burden thyself with 
those of a partner, seek her whom thou hast lost in the 
Wesi,^’ 

“ In the West 9 That’s a wide word.” 

“ It is the last,” said the Dwarf, “ which I design to 
utter and he drew the shutters of his window, leaving 
Hobbie to make the most of the hint he had given. 

The west ! the west ! — thought Elliot ; the country is 
pretty quiet down that way, unless it were Jock o’ the 
Todholes ; and he’s ower auld now for the like o’ thae 
jobs. — West ! — By my life, it must be Westburnflat. 
“ Elshie, just tell me one w’ord. Am I right 1 Is it 
Westburnflat 9 If I am wrang, say sae. I wadna like 
to wyte an innocent neighbour wi’ violence — No answer 9 
— It must be the Red Reiver — I didna think he wad hae 
ventured on me, neither, and sae mony kin as there’s o’ 
us — I am thinking he’ll hae some better backing than bis 
Cumberland friends. — Fareweel to you, Elshie, and mony 
thanks — I douna be fashed wi’ the siller e’en now, for I 
maun awa’ to meet my friends at the Trysting-place — 
Sae, if ye carena to open the window, ye can fetch it in 
after I am awa’.” 

Still there was no reply. 

“ He’s deaf, or he’s daft, or he’s baith ; but I hae nae 
time to stay to claver wi’ him.” 

And off rode Hobbie Elliot towards the place of ren- 
dezvous which he had named to his friends. 

Four or five riders were already gathered at the Tryst- 
ing-pool. They stood in close consultation together, 
while their horses were permitted to graze among the 
poplars which overhung the broad still pool. A more nu- 
merous party were seen coming from the southward. It 
proved to be EarnsclifF and his party who had follow- 
ed the track of the cattle as far as the English border, but 


THE ISLACK DWARF. 


75 


nad halted on the information that a considerable force 
was drawn together under some of the jacohile gentlemen 
m that district, and there were tidings of insurrection in 
different parts of Scotland. This took away from the 
act, which had been perpetrated, the appearance of pri- 
vate animosity, or love of plunder ; and Earnscliff was 
now disposed to regard it as a symptom of civil war. The 
young gentleman greeted Hobbie with the most sincere 
sympathy, and informed him of the news he had received. 

“ Then, may 1 never stir frae the bit,” said Elliot, “ if 
auld Ellieslaw is not at the bottom o’ the haill villany ! 
Ye see he’s leagued wi’ the Cumberland Catholics ; and 
that agrees. weel wi’ what Elshie hinted about Westburn- 
flat, for Ellieslaw aye protected him, and he will want to 
harry and disarm the country about his ain hand before 
he breaks out.” 

Some now remembered that the party of ruffians had 
oeen heard to say they w^ere acting for James VIIT., and 
were charged to disarm all rebels. Others had heard 
Westburnflat boast in drinking parties, that Ellieslaw would 
soon be in arms for the Jacobite cause, and that he him- 
self was to hold a command under him, and that they 
would be bad neighbours for young Earnscliff, and all that 
stood out for the established government. The result was 
a strong belief that Westburnflat had headed the party 
under Ellieslaw’s orders ; and they resolved to proceed 
instantly to the house of the former, and, if possible, to 
secure his person. They were by this time joined by so 
many of their dispersed friends, that their number amount- 
ed to upwards of twenty horsemen, well mounted, and 
olerably, though variously armed. 

A brook which issued from a narrow glen among tne 
hills, entered at Westburnflat, upon the open marshy level, 
which, expanding about half a mile in every direction, 
gives name to the spot. In this place the character of 
the stream becomes changed, and, from being a lively 
brisk-running mountain-torrent, it stagnates, like a blue 
swollen snake, in dull deep windings through the swampy 
level. On the side of the stream, and nearly about the 


76 


TA1.E.S OF MV LANDLORD. 


centre of the plain, arose the Tower of Westburnflat, one 
of the few remaining strong-holds formerly so numerous 
upon the Borders. The ground upon which it stood was 
gently elevated above the marsh for the space of about 
a hundred yards, affording an esplanade of dry turf, which 
extended itself in the immediate neighbourhood of the 
tower ; but, beyond which, the surface presented to stran- 
gers was that of an impassable and dangerous bog. The 
owner of the tower and his inmates alone knew the wind 
ing and intricate paths, which, leading over ground that 
was comparatively sound, admitted visiters to his resi- 
dence. But among the party which were assembled un- 
der EarnsclifTs directions, there was more than one per- 
son qualified to act as a guide. For although the owner’s 
character and habits of life were generally known, yet 
the laxity of feeling with respect to property, prevented 
his being looked on with the abhorrence with which he 
must have been regarded in a more civilized country. 
He was considered, among his more peaceable neighbours, 
pretty much as a gambler, cock-fighter, or horse-jockey, 
would be regarded at the present day ; a person, of course, 
whose habits were to be condemned, and his society, in 
general, avoided, yet who could not be considered as 
marked with the indelible infamy attached to his profes- 
sion, where laws have been habitually observed. And 
their indignation was awakened against him upon this oc- 
casion, not so much on account of the general nature of 
die transaction, which was just such as was to be expect- 
ed from this marauder, as that the violence had been per- 
petrated upon a neighbour against whom he had no cause 
of quarrel, against a friend of their own, — above all, 
against one of the name of Elliot, to which clan most oi 
them belonged. It was not, therefore, wonderful, that 
there should be several in the band pretty well acquainted 
with the locality of his habitation, and capable of giving 
such directions and guidance as soon placed the whole 
party on the open space of firm ground in front of the 
Tower of Westburnflat. 


THE BLACK DWABF. 


77 


CHAPTER IX 

So spak the knicht ; the geaunt sed, 

Lead forth with the, the sely maid, 

And mak me quite of the and sche ; 

For glaunsing ee, or brow so brent, 

Or cheek with rose and lilye blent. 

Me lists not ficht with the. 

Romance of the Falcon. 


The tower, before which the party now stood, was a 
small square building, of the most gloomy aspect. The 
walls were of great thickness, and the windows, or slits 
W'hich served the purpose of windows, seemed rather cal- 
culated to afford the defenders the means of employing 
missile weapons, than for admitting air or light to the 
apartments within. A small battlement projected over 
the walls on every side, and afforded farther advantage 
of defence by its niched parapet, within which arose, a 
steep roof, flagged with grey stones. A single turret at 
one angle, defended by a door studded with huge iron 
nails, rose above the battlement, and gave access to the 
roof from within, by the spiral staircase which it enclosed. 
It seemed to the party that their motions were watched 
by some one concealed within this turret ^ and they were 
confirmed in their belief, when, through a narrow loop- 
hole, a female hand was seen to wave a handkerchief, as 
if by way of signal to them. Hobbie was almost out ot 
his senses with joy and eagerness. 

“ It was Grace’s hand and arm,” he said ; “ I can swear 
to it amang a thousand. There is not the like of it on 
this side of the Lowdens — We’ll have her out, lads, if we 
should carry off the tower of Westburnflat stane by stane.” 

Earnscliff, though he doubted the possibility of recog- 
nizing a fair maiden’s hand at such a distance from the 
7 * VOL. I. 


78 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


eye of the lover, would say nothing to damp his friend^s 
animated hopes, and it was resolved to summon the gar- 
rison. 

The shouts of the party, and the winding of one or two 
horns, at length brought to a loop-hole, which flanked the 
entrance, the haggard face of an old woman. 

“ That’s the Reiver’s mother,” said one of the Elliots ; 
“ she’s ten times waur than himsell, and is wyted for 
muckle of the ill he does about the country.” 

“ Wha are ye 9 What d’ye want here 9” were the 
queries of the respectable progenitor. ' 

“ We are seeking William Graeme of Westburnflat,” 
said EarnsclifF. 

He’s no at hame,” returned the old dame. 

“ When did he leave home 9” pursued Earnscliff. 

“ I canna tell,” said the portress. 

“ When will he return said Hobbie Elliot. 

“ 1 dinna ken naething about it,” replied the inexora- 
nle guardian of the Keep. 

“ Is there any body within the tower with you 9” again 
demanded EarnsclifF. 

“ Naebody but myselland baudrons,” said the old wo- 
man. 

‘‘ Then open the gate and admit us,” said Earnscliff ; 
“ I am a justice of peace, and in search of the evidence 
of a felony.” 

“ Deil be in their fingers that draws a bolt for ye,” re- 
torted the portress ; “ for mine shall never do it. Think 
na ye shame o’ yoursells,to come here siccan a band o’ 
ye, wi’ your swords and spears, and steel-caps, to frighten 
a lone widow woman 9” 

“ Our information,” said Earnscliff, “ is positive ; we 
Are seeking goods which have been forcibly carried off, 
to a great amount.” 

‘‘ And a young woman, that’s been cruelly made pris- 
oner, that’s worth mair than a’ the gear, twice told,” said 
Hobbie. 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


79 


‘ And I warn you,” continued EarnsclifF, ‘‘ that your 
only way to prove your son’s innocence, is to give us quiet 
admittance to search the house.” 

“ And what will ye do, if I carena to thraw the keys, 
or draw the bolts, or open the grate to sic a clamjamfric 
said the old dame, scoffingly. 

“ Force our way wi’ the King’s keys, and break the 
.neck of every living soul we find in the house, if ye dinna 
gie it ower forthwith !” menaced the incensed Hobbie. 

“ Threatened folks live lang,” said the hag, in the same 
tone of irony ; “ there’s the iron-grate — try your skeell 
on’t, lads — it has kept out as gude men as you, or now.” 

So saying, she laughed, and withdrew from the aper- 
ture through which she had held the parley. 

The besiegers now opened a serious consultation. The 
immense thickness of the walls, and the small size of the 
windows, might, for a time, have even resisted cannon-shot. 
The entrance was secured, first, by a strong grated door, 
composed entirely of hammered iron, of such ponderous 
strength as seemed calculated to resist any force that could 
be brought against it. “ Pinches or forehammers will 
never pick upon’t,” said Hugh, the blacksmith of Ringle- 
burn ; “ ye might as weel batter at it wi’ pipe-staples.” 

Within the door-way, and at the distance of nine feet, 
which was the solid thickness of the wall, there was a 
second door of oak, crossed, both breadth and length- 
ways, with clenched bars of iron, and studded full of 
broad-headed nails. Besides all these defences, they 
were by no means confident in the truth of the old dame’s 
assertion, that she alone composed the garrison. The 
more knowing of the party had observed hoof-marks in 
the track by which they approached the tower, which 
seemed to indicate that several persons had very lately 
passed in that direction.” 

To all these difficulties was added their want of means 
for attacking the place. There was no hope of procur- 
ing ladders 'ong enough to reach the battlements, and the 
windows, besides being very narrow, were secured with 
tron-bars. Scaling was therefore out of the question 


80 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


mining was still more so, for want of tools and gunpow- 
der ; neither were the besiegers provided with food, 
means- of shelter, or other conveniences, which might have 
enabled them to convert the siege into a blockade ; and 
there would, at any rate, have been a risk of relief from 
some of the marauder’s comrades. Hobbie grinded and 
gnashed his teeth, as, walking round the fastness, he could 
devise no means of making a forcible entry. At length,, 
he suddenly exclaimed, “ And what for no do as our fa- 
thers did lang syne 9 — Put hand to the wark, lads. Let 
us cut up bushes and briars, pile them before the door, 
and set (ire to them, and smoke that auld devil’s dam as 
if she were to be reested for bacon.” 

All immediately closed with this proposal, and some 
went to work with swords and knives to cut down the 
alder and hawthorn bushes which grew by the side of the 
sluggish stream, many of which were sufficiently decayed 
and dried for their purpose, while others began to collect 
them in a large stack properly disposed for burning as 
close to the iron-grate as they could be piled. Fire was 
speedily obtained from one of their guns, and Hobbie 
was already advancing to the pile with a kindled brand, 
when the surly face of the robber, and the muzzle of a 
musquetoon, were partially shown at a shot-hole which 
flanked the entrance. “ Mony thanks to ye,” he said 
scoffingly, “ for collecting sae muckle winter eilding for 
us ; but if ye step a foot nearer it wi’ that lunt, it’s be 
the dearest step ye ever made in your days.” 

“ We’ll sune see that,” said Hobbie, advancing fear- 
lessly with the torch. 

The marauder snapped his piece at him, which, fortu- 
nately for our honest friend, did not go off ; while Earns- 
cliff, firing at the same moment at the narrow aperture 
and slight mark afforded by the robber’s face, grazed the 
side of his head with a bullet. He had apparently cal- 
culated upon his post affording him more security, for he 
no sooner felt the wound, though a very slight one, than 
he requested a parley, and demanded to know wbat they 


THE BLACK D.WARF. 


81 


•Tieant by attacking in this fashion a peaceable and honest 
man, and shedding his blood in that lawless manner f 

“We want your prisoner,” said Earnscliff, “ to be de- 
livered up to us in safety.” 

“ And what concern have you with her 7” replied the 
marauder. 

“ That,” retorted Earnscliff, “ you, who are detaining 
.her by force, have no right to inquire.” 

“ Aweel, I think 1 can gie a guess,” said the robber 
“ Weel, sirs, I am laith to enter into deadly feud with you 
by spilling ony of your bluid, though Earnscliff hasna 
stopped to shed mine — and he can hit a mark to a groat’s 
breadth — so, to prevent mair skaith, I am willing to de- 
liver up the prisoner, since nae less will please you.” 

“ And Hobble’s gear ?” cried Simon of Hackburn. 
“ D’ye think you’re to be free to plunder the faulds and 
byres of a gentle Elliot, as if they were an auld wife’s 
hen’s-cavey 

“ As I live by bread,” replied Willie of Westburnflat — 
“ as I live by bread, I have not a single cloot o’ them ! 
they’re a^ ower the march lang syne ; there’s no a horn 
o’ them about the tower. But I’ll see what o’ them can 
be gotten back, and I’ll take this day twa days to meet 
Hobble at the Castleton wi’ twa friends on ilka side, and 
see to make an agreement about a’ the wrang he can wyte 
me wi’.” 

“ Ay, ay,” said Elliot, “ that will do weel eneugh.” 
And then aside to his kinsman, “ Murrain on the gear ! 
Lord’s sake, man ! say naught about them. Let us but 
get puir Grace out o’ that auld Hellicat’s clutches.” 

“ Will ye gie me your word, Earnscliff,” said the ma- 
rauder, who still lingered at the shot-hole, “ your faith 
and troth, with hand and glove, that I am free to come 
and free to gae, with five minutes to open the grate, and 
five minutes to steek it and to draw the bolts 7 less 
winna do, for they want creishing sairly. Will ye do 
this 7^ 

“ You shall have fulltime,” said Earnscliff; “ I plight 
my faith and troth, my hand and my glove.” 


82 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


‘‘ Wait there a moment, then,” said Westhurnflat ; 

or hear ye, I wad rather ye wad fa’ back a pistol-shot 
from the door. It’s no that I mistrust your word, Earns- 
clifF ; but it’s best to be sure.” 

“ O, friend,” thought Hobbie to himself as he drew 
back, “ an I had you but on Turner’s-holm,^and nae 
body by but twa honest lads to see fair play, I wad make 
ye wish ye had broken your leg ere ye had touched beast 
or body that belanged to me !” 

He has a white feather in his wing this same West- 
burnflat after a’,” said Simon of Hackburn, somewhat 
scandalized by his ready surrender. — “ He’ll ne’er fill his 
father’s boots.” 

In the meanwhile, the inner door of the tower was 
opened, and the mother of the freebooter appeared in 
the space betwixt that and the outer grate. Willie him- 
self was next seen leading forth a female, and the old 
woman, carefully bolting the grate behind them, re- 
mained on the post as a sort of sentinel. 

‘‘ Ony ane or twa o’ ye come forward,” said the out- 
law, “ and take her frae my hand hale and sound.” 

Hobbie advanced eagerly to meet his betrothed bride. 
EarnsclifF followed more slowly to guard against treach- 
ery. Suddenly Hobbie slackened hi’s pace in the deep- 
est mortification, while that of EarnsclifF was hastened 
by impatient surprise. It was not Grace Armstrong, but 
Miss Isabella Vere, whose liberation had been efFected 
by their appearance before the tower. 

“ Where is Grace Where is Grace Armstrong *?” 
exclaimed Hobbie, in the extremity of wrath and indig- 
nation. 

“ Not in my hands,” answered Westhurnflat ; “ ye 
may search the tower, if ye misdoubt me.” 

“ You false villain, you shall account for her, or die on 
the spot,” said Elliot, presenting his gun. 

But his companions, who now came up, instantly dis- 
armed him of his weapon, exclaiming, all at once, “ Hand 
and glove ! faith and troth ! Haud a’ care, Hobbie, we 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


83 


maun keep our faith wi’ Westburnflat, were he the great- 
est rogue ever rode.” 

Thus protected, the outlaw recovered his audacity, 
which had been somewhat daunted by the menacing ges- 
ture of Elliot. 

“ I have kept my word, sirs,” he said, “ and I look 
to have nae wrang amang ye. If this is no the prisoner 
ye sought,” he said, addressing EarnsclifF, “ye’ll render 
her back to me again. I am answerable for her to those 
that aught her.” 

“ For God’s sake, l^Ir. EarnsclifF, protect me !” said 
Miss Vere, clinging to her deliverer ; “ do not you aban- 
don one whom the whole world seems to have abandoned.” 

“ Fear nothing,” whispered EarnsclifF, “ I will pro- 
tect you with my life.” Then turning to Westburnflat, 
“ Villain !” he said, “ how dared you to insult this lady T’ 

“ For that matter, EarnsclifF,” answered the freeboot- 
er, “ I can answer to them that has better right to ask 
me than you have ; but if you come with an armed 
force, and take her awa’ from them that her friends 
lodged her wi’, how will you answer that 9 — But it’s your 
ain afFair — Nae single man can keep a tower against 
twenty — A’ the men o’ the Mearns downa do mair than 
they dow.” 

“ He lies most falsely,” said Isabella ; “ he carried 
me ofF by violence from my father.” 

“ Maybe he only wanted ye to think sae, hinny,” re- 
plied the robber ; “ but it’s na business o’ mine, let it be 
as it may. — So ye winna resign her back to me 

“ Back to you, fellow ? Surely no,” answered Earns- 
clifF ; “ I will protect Miss Vere, and escort her safely 
wherever she is pleased to be conveyed.” 

“ Ay, ay, maybe you and her hae settled that already,” 
said Willie of Westburnflat. 

“ And Grace interrupted Hobbie, shaking himselt 
loose From the friends who had been preaching to him the 
^sanctity of the safe conduct, upon the faith of which 
the freebooter had ventured from his tower, — “ Where’s 
Grace ?” and he rushed on the marauder, sword in hand. 


84 


TAXES OF MY LANDLORD. 


Westburnflat thus pressed, after calling out, “ God’s 
sake, Hobbie, hear me a gliff !” fairly turned his back 
and fled. His mother stood ready to open and shut the 
grate ; but Hobbie struck at the freebooter as he entered 
with so much force, that the sword made a considerable 
cleft in the lintel of the vaulted door, which is^ still shown 
as a memorial of the superior strength of those who lived 
in the days of yore. Ere Hobbie could repeat the blow, 
the door was shut and secured, and he was compelled to 
retreat to his companions, who were now preparing to 
break up the siege of Westburnflat. They insisted upon 
his accompanying them in their return. 

“ Ye hae broken truce already,” said old Dick of the 
Dingle ; “ an we takena the better care, ye’ll play mair 
gowk’s tricks, and make yoursell thelaughing-stock of the 
hale country, besides having your friends charged with 
slaughter under trust. Bide till the meeting at Castleton, 
as ye hae greed ; and if he disna make ye amends, then 
we’ll hae it out o’ his heart’s blood. But let us gang 
reasonably to wark and keep our tryst, and I’se warrant 
we get back Grace, and the kyne an’ a’.” 

This cold-blooded reasoning w^ent ill down with the 
unfortunate lover ; but, as he could only obtain the as- 
sistance of his neighbours and kinsmen on their own 
terms, he was compelled to acquiesce in their notions of 
good faith and regular procedure. 

EarnsclifF now requested the assistance of a few of 
the party to convey Miss Vere to her father’s Castle of 
Ellieslaw, to which she was peremptory in desiring to be 
conducted. This was readily granted ; and five or six 
young men agreed to attend him as an escort. Hobbie 
was not of the number. Almost heart-broken by the 
events of the day, and his final disappointment, he re- 
turned moodily home to take such measures as he could 
for the sustenance and protection of his family, and to 
arrange with his neighbours the farther steps which should 
be adopted for the recovery of Grace Armstrong. The 
rest of the party dispersed in different directions, as soon 
as they had crossed the morass. The outlaw ajid hip 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


85 


mother watched them from the tower, until they entirely 
disappeared. 


CHAPTER X. 

I left my ladye’s bower last night — 

It was clad in wreaths of snaw, — 

Fll seek it when the sun is bright, 

And sweet the -roses blaw. 

Old Ballad. 

Incensed at what he deemed the coldness of his 
friends, in a cause which interested him so nearly, Rob- 
bie had shaken himself free of their company, and was 
now on his solitary road homeward. “ The fiend 
founder thee !” said he, as he spurred impatiently his 
over-fatigued and stumbling horse : “ thou art like a’ the 
rest o’ them. Hae I not bred thee, and fed thee, and 
dressed thee wi’ mine ain hand, and wouldst thou snapper 
now and break my neck at my utmost need 9 But thou’rt 
e’en like the lave — the farthest off o’ them a’ is my cousin 
ten times removed ; and day or night I ward hae served 
them wi’ my best blood ; and now, I think they show mair 
regard to the common thief of Westburnflat than to their 
ain kinsman. But I should see the lights now in Hough- 
foot — Waes me !” he continued, recollecting himself, 
there will neither coal nor candle-light shine in the 
Heugh-foot ony mair ! An it werena for my mother and 
sisters, and poor Grace, 1 could find it in my heart to put 
spurs to the beast, and loup ower the scaur into the water 
to make an end o’t a’.” — In this disconsolate mood he 
turned his horse’s bridle toward the cottage in which his 
family had found refuge. 

As he approached the door, he heard whispering and 
littering amongst his sisters. “ The deevil’s in the wom- 
en,” said poor Hobbie ; “ they would nicker, and laugh 

8 VOL. I. 


86 


TALES or MT LANDLORD. 


and giggle, if their best friend was lying a corp — and yet 
I am glad they can keep up their hearts sae weel, poor 
silly things ; but the dirdum fa’s on me, to be sure, and 
no on them.” 

While he thus meditated, he was engaged in fastening 
up his horse in a shed. “ Thou maun do without horse- 
sheet and surcingle now, lad,” he said, addressing the an- 
imal ; “ you and me hae had a downcome alike ; we had 
better hae fa’en in the deepest pool o’ Tarras.” 

He was interrupted by the youngest of his sisters, who 
came running out, and, speaking in a constrained voice, 
as if to stifle some emotion, called out to him, “ What . 
are ye doing there, Hobbie, fiddling about the naig, and 
there’s ane frae Cumberland been waiting here for ye 
this hour and mair Haste ye in, man ; I’ll take off 
the saddle.” 

“ Ane frae Cumberland !” exclaimed Elliot ; and 
putting the bridle of his horse into the hand of his sister, 
he rushed into the cottage. “ Where is he ? where is 
he ?” he exclaimed, glancing eagerly around, and seeing 
only females ; ‘‘ Did he bring news of Grace ?” 

“ He doughtna bide an instant langer,” said the elder 
sister, still with a suppressed laugh. 

“ Hout fie, bairns !” said the old lady, with ;omething 
of a good-humoured reproof, “ ye shouldna vex your 
billy Hobbie that way. Look round, my bairn, and see 
if there isna ane here mair than ye left this morning.” 

Hobbie looked eagerly round. “ There’s you, and 
the three titties.” 

“ There’s four of us now, Hobbie, lad,” said the 
youngest, who at this moment entered. 

In an instant Hobbie had in his arms Grace Armstrong, 
who, with one of his sisters’ plaids around her, had pass- 
ed unnoticed at his first entrance. “ How dared you do 
this 9” said Hobbie. 

“ It wasna my fault,” said Grace, endeavouring to 
cover her face with her hands to hide at once her blushes 
and escape the storm of hearty kisses with which her 
bridegroom punished her simple stratagem, — “ It wasna 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


87 


my fault, Hobbie ; ye should kiss Jeanie and the rest o’ 
them, for they hae the wyte o’t.” 

“ And so I will,” said Hobbie, and embraced and 
kissed his sisters and grandmother a hundred times, while 
the whole party half-laughed, half-cried, in the extremity 
of their joy. “ I am the happiest man,” said Hobbie 
throwing himself down on a seat, almost exhausted, — “ I 
am the happiest man in the world !” 

“ Then, O my dear bairn,'” said the good old dame, 
who lost no opportunity of teaching her lesson of reli- 
gion at those moments when the heart was best open to 
receive it,- — “ Then, O my son, give praise to Him that 
brings smiles out o’ tears and joy out o’ grief, as he brought 
light ou^o’ darkness and the world out o’ naething. Was 
it not my word, that if ye could say His will be done, 
ye might hae cause to say His name be praised 9” 

“ It was — it was your word, grannie ; and I do praise 
Him for his mercy, and for leaving me a good parent 
when my ain were gane,” said honest Hobbie, taking her 
hand, “ that puts me in mind to think of Him, baith in 
happiness and distress.” 

There was a solemn pause of one or two minutes em- 
ployed in the exercise of mental devotion, which ex- 
pressed, in purity and sincerity, the gratitude of the 
affectionate family to that Providence who had unexpect- 
edly restored to their embraces the friend whom they 
had lost. 

Hobble’s first inquiries were concerning the adventures 
which Grace had undergone. They were told at length, 
but amounted in substance to this : — That she was awak- 
ed by the noise which the ruffians made in breaking into 
the house, and by the resistance made by one or two of 
the servants, which was soon overpowered ; that, dress- 
ing herself hastily, she ran down stairs, and having seen, 
in the scuffle, Westburnflat’s vizard drop off, imprudently 
named him by his name, and besought him for mercy ; 
that the ruffian instantly stopped her mouth, dragged her 
from the house, and placed her on horseback, behind one 
of his associates. 


88 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


I’ll break the accursed neck of him,” said Hobbie, 
‘ if there werena another Graeme in the land but himsell!” 

She proceeded to say, that she was carried southward 
along with the party, and the spoil which they drove be- 
fore them, until they had crossed the Border. Sudden- 
ly a person, known to her as a kinsman of Westburndat, 
came riding very fast after the marauders, and told their 
leader, that his cousin had learnt from a sure hand that 
no luck would come of it, unless the lass was restored to 
her friends. After some discussion, the chief of the party 
seemed to acquiesce. Grace was placed behind her new 
guardian, who pursued in silence, and with great speed, 
the least-frequented path to the Heugh-foot, and ere 
evening closed set down the fatigued and terrified damsel 
within a quarter of a mile of the dwelling of her friends. 
Many and sincere were the congratulations which passed 
on all sides. 

As these emotions subsided, less pleasing considerations 
began to intrude themselves. 

“ This is a miserable place for ye a’,” said Hobbie, 
looking around him ; “I can sleep weel eneughmysell 
outby beside the naig, as I hae done mony a lang night 
on the hills ; but how ye are to put yoursells up, I canna 
see ! And, what’s waur, I canna mend it; and what’s 
waur than a’, the morn may come, and the day after that, 
without your being a bit better off.” 

“ It was a cowardly cruel thing,” said one of the sis- 
ters, looking round, “ to harry a puir family to the bare 
wa’s this gate.” 

“ And leave us neither stirk nor stot,” said the young- 
est brother, who now entered, “ nor sheep nor lamb, nor 
aught that eats grass and corn.” 

“ If they had ony quarrel wi’ us,” said Harry, the 
second brother, “ were we na ready to have fought it 
out ^ And that we should have been a’ frae hame, too, 
— ane and a’ upon the hill — Odd, an we had been at 
hame. Will Gra3me’s .stamach shouldna hae wanted its 
morning ; but it’s biding him, is it na, Hobbie 


THE ELACK DWARF. 


89 


‘‘ Our neighbours hae ta’en a day at the Castleton to 
gree wi’ him at the sight o’ men,” said Hobbie mourn- 
fully ; “ they behoved to have it a’ their ane gate, or 
there was nae help to be got at their hands.” 

“ To gree wi’ him !” exclaimed both his brothers at 
once, “ after siccan an act of stouthrife as hasna been 
heard o’ in the country since the auld riding days !” 

“ Very true, billies, and my blood was e’en boiling at 

it 5 but the sight o’ Grace Armstrong has settled it 

brawly.” 

‘‘ But the stocking, Hobbie said John Elliot ; 
“ we’re utterly ruined. Harry and 1 hae been to gather 
what was on the outby land, and there’s scarce a cloot 
left. I kenna how we’re to carry on — We maun a’ gang 
to the wars, I think. Westburnflat hasna the means, e’en 
if he had the will, to make up our loss ; there’s nae 
mends to be got out o’ him, but what ye take out o’ his 
banes. He hasna a four-footed creature but the vicious 
blood thing he rides on, and that’s sair trash’d wi’ his 
night wark. We are ruined stoop and roop.” 

Hobbie cast a mournful glance on Grace Armstrong, 
who returned it with a downcast look and a gentle sigh. 

“ Dinna be cast down, bairns,” said the grandmother, 
“ we hae gude friends that winna forsake us in adversity. 
There’s Sir. Thomas Kittleloof is my third cousin by the 
mother’s side, and he has come by a hantle siller, and 
been made a knight-baronet into the bargain, for being 
ane o’ the Commissioners at the Union.” 

“ He wadna gie a bodle to save us frae famishing,” 
said Hobbie ; “ and, if he did, the bread that 1 bought 
wi’t would stick in my throat, when I thought it was part 
of the price of puir auld Scotland’s crown and indepen- 
dence.” 

“ There’s the Laird o’ Dunder, ane o’ the auldest 
'amilies in Tiviotdale.” 

“ He’s in the tolbooth, mother — he’s in the heart of 
Mid-Lowden for a thousand merk he borrowed from 
Saunders Wyliecoat the writer.” 

8* VOL. 1. 


90 


TALES or MY LANDLORD. 


“ Poor man !” exclaimed Mrs. Elliot, “ can we no 
send him something, Hobbie 

“ Ye forget, grannie, ye forget we want helpoursells,” 
said Hobbie, somewhat peevishly. 

“ Troth did I, hinny,” replied the good-natured lady, 
“ just at the instant ; it’s sae natural to think on ane’s 
blude relations before themsells. — But there’s young 
Earnscliff.” 

“ He has ower little o’ his ain ; and siccan a name to 
keep up, it wad be a shame,” said Hobbie, “ to burden 
him wi’ our distress. And I’ll tell ye, grannie, it’s need- 
less to sit rhyming ower the style of a’ your kith, kin, and 
allies, as if there was a charm in their braw names to do 
us good ; the grandees hae forgotten us, and those of our 
ain degree hae just little eneugh to gang on wi’ themsells; 
ne’er a friend hae we that can, or will, help us to stock 
the farm again.” 

“ Then, Hobbie, we maun trust in Him that can raise 
up friends and fortune out o’ the bare moor, as they say.” 

Hobbie sprung upon his feet. “ Ye are right, gran- 
nie !” he exclaimed ; “ ye are right. 1 do ken a friend 
on the bare moor, that baith can and will help us — The 
turns o’ this day hae dung my head clean hirdie girdie. 
1 left as muckle gowd lying on Mucklestane-Moor this 
morning as would plenish the house and stock the Heugh- 
foot twice ower, and I am certain sure Elshie wadna 
grudge us the use of it.” 

“ Elshie !” said his grandmother in astonishment ; 
“ what Elshie do you mean ?” 

“ What Elshie should I mean, but Canny Elshie, the 
Wight o’ Mucklestane,” replied Hobbie. 

“ God forfend, my bairn, you should gang to fetch 
water out o’ broken cisterns, or seek for relief frae them 
that deal wi’ the Evil One ! There was never luck in 
their gifts, nor grace in their paths. And the haill coun- 
try kens that body Elshie’s an unco man. O, if there 
was the law, and the douce. quiet administration of justice, 
that makes a kingdom flourish in righteousness, the like 


THE BLACK DWABF. 


91 


o’ them snldna be suffered to live ! The wizard and the 
witch are the abomination and the evil thing in the land.” 

“ Troth, mother,” answered Hobbie, “ ye may say 
what ye like, but I am in the mind that witches and war- 
locks havena half the power they had lang syne ; at least, 
sure am I, that ae ill-deviser, like auld Ellieslaw, or ae 
ill-doer, like that d — d villain Westburnflat, is a greater 
plague and abomination in a country-side than a haill 
curnie o’ the warst witches that ever capered on a broom- 
stick, or played cantrips on Eastern’s E’en. It wad hae 
been lang or Elshie had burnt down my house and barns, 
and I am determined to try if he will do aught to build 
them up again. He’sweel kend a skilfu’ man ower a’ 
the country, as far as Brough under Stanmore.” 

“ Bide a wee,' my bairn ; mind his benefits havena 
thriven wi’ a’ body. Jock Howden died o’ the very same 
disorder Elshie pretended to cure him of, about the fa’ o’ 
the leaf ; and though he helped Lambside’s cow weel 
out o’ the moor-ill, yet the louping-ill’s been sairer amang 
his sheep than ony season before. And then I have 
heard he uses sic words abusing human nature, that’s like 
a fleeing in the face of Providence ; and ye mind ye 
said yoursell,the first time ye ever saw him, that he was 
mair like a bogle than a living thing.” . 

“ Hout, mother,” said Hobbie, “ Elshie’s no that bad 
a chield ; he’s a grewsome spectacle for a crooked dis- 
ciple, to be sure, and a rough talker, but his bark is waur 
than his bite ; sae, if I had anes something to eat, for I 
havena had a morsel ower my throat this day, 1 wad 
streek myselldown for twa or three hours aside the beast, 
and be on and awa’ to Mucklestane wi’ the first skreigh 
o’ morning.” 

“ And what for no the night, Hobbie,” said Harry, 

' and I will ride wi’ ye 9” 

“ My naig is tired,” said Hobbie. 

“ Ye may take mine, then,” said John. 

“ But I am a wee thing wearied mysell.” 

You wearied 9” said Harry ; “ shame on ye ! 1 
have kend ye keep the saddle four-and-twenty hours 


92 


TLAJiES OF MY LANDLORD. 


thegither, and ne’er sic a word as weariness in youi 
wame.” 

“ The night’s very dark,” said Hobbie, rising and 
looking through the casement of the cottage ; “ and, to 
speak truth, and shame the deil, though Elshie’s a real 
honest fallow, yet somegate I wad rather take daylight 
wi’ me when I gang to visit him.” 

This frank avowal put a stop to further argument ; 
and Hobbie, having thus compromised matters between 
the rashness of his brother’s counsel, and the timid cau- 
tions which he received from his grandmother, refreshed 
himself with such food as the cottage afforded ; and, 
after a cordial salutation all round, retired to the shed, 
and stretched himself beside his trusty palfrey. His 
brothers shared between them some trusses of clean 
straw, disposed in the stall usually occupied by old An- 
naple’s cow ; and the females arranged themselves for 
repose as well as the accommodations of the cottage 
would permit. 

With the first dawn of morning, Hobbie arose ; and, 
having rubbed down and saddled his horse, he set forth 
to Mucklestane-Moor. He avoided the company of 
either of his brothers, from an idea, that the Dwarf was 
most propitious to those who visited him alone. 

“ The creature,” said he to himself, as he went along, 
“ is no neighbourly ; ae body at a time is fully mair than 
he weel can abide. I wonder if he’s looked out o’ the 
crib o’ him to gather up the bag o’ siller. If he hasna 
done that, it will hae been a braw windfa’ for somebody, 
and ril be finely flung. — Come, Tarras,” said he to his 
horse, striking him at the same time with his spur, 
“ make mair fit, man ; we maun be first on the field if 
we can.” 

He was now on the heath, which began to be illumin- 
ated by the beams of the rising sun ; the gentle declivity 
which he was descending presented him a distinct, though 
distant view, of the Dwarfs dwelling. The door open- 
ed, and Hobbie witnessed with his own eyes that phenorri- 
enon which he had frequently heard mentioned Two 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


93 


human figures (if that of the Dwarf could be termed 
such) issued from the solitary abode of the Recluse, and 
stood as if in converse together in the open air. The 
taller form then stooped, as if taking something up which 
lay beside the door of the hut, then both moved forward 
a little way, and again halted, as in deep conference. 
All Hobble’s superstitious terrors revived on witnessing 
this spectacle. That the Dwarf would open his dwelling 
to a mortal guest, was as improbable as that any one 
would choose voluntarily to be his nocturnal visiter ; and, 
under full conviction that he beheld a wizard holding in- 
tercourse with his familiar spirit. Hobble pulled in at once 
his breath and his bridle, resolved not to incur the in- 
dignation of either by a hasty intrusion on their conference. 
They were probably aware of his approach, for he had 
not halted for a moment before the Dwarf returned to his 
cottage ; and the taller figure who had accompanied him, 
glided round the inclosure of the garden, and seemed to 
disappear from the eyes of. the admiring Hobble. 

“ Saw ever mortal the like o’ that !” said Elliot ; 
“ but my case is desperate, sae, if he were Beelzebub 
himsell,l’se venture down the brae on him.” 

Yet, notwithstanding his assumed courage, he slackenr 
ed his pace, when, nearly upon the very spot where he 
had last seen the tall figure, he discerned, as if lurking 
among the long heather, a small black rough-looking ob- 
ject, like a terrier dog. 

“ He has nae dog that ever I heard of,” said Hobble, 
“ but mony a deil about his hand — Lord forgie me for 
saying sic a word ! — It keeps its grund, be what it like — 
I’m judging it’s a badger ; but wha kens what shapes 
tbae bogles will take to fright a body 9 it will maybe start 
up like a lion or a crocodile when I come nearer. I’se 
e’en drive a stane at it, for if.it change its shape when 
I’m ower near, Tarras will never stand it ; and it will be 
uwer muckle to hae him and the deil to fight wi’ baith 
at ance.” 

He therefore cautiously threw a stone at the object 
which continued motionless. “ It’s nae living thing, aftei 


94 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


a’,” said Hobbie, approaching, “ but the very bag o’ sil- 
ler he flung out o’ the window yesterday ! and that other 
queer lang creature has just brought it sae muckle farther 
on the way to me.” He then advanced and lifted the 
heavy fur pouch, which was quite full of gold. “ Mercy 
on us !” said Hobbie, whose heart fluttered between glee 
at the revival of his hopes and prospects in life, and sus- 
picion of the purpose for which this assistance was afford- 
ed him — “ Mercy on us ! it’s an awfu’ thing to touch 
what has been sae lately in the claws of something no 
canny. I canna shake mysell loose o’ the belief that there 
has been some jookery-paukery of Satan’s in a’ this ; 
but I am determined to conduct mysell like an honest 
man and a good Christian, come o’t what will.” 

He advanced accordingly to the cottage door, and hav- 
ing knocked repeatedly without receiving any answer, he 
at length, elevated his voice and addressed the inmate of 
the hut. “ Elshie ! Father Elshie ! I ken ye’re within 
doors, and wauking, for I saw ye at the door-cheek as I 
cam ower the bent ; will ye come out and speak just a 
gliff to ane that has mony thanks 1o gie ye 9 — It was a’ 
true ye tell’d me about Westburnflat ; but he’s sent back 
Grace safe and skaithless, sae there’s nae ill happened 
yet but what may be suffered or sustained. — Wad ye but 
come out a gliff, man, or but say ye’re listening 9 — Aweel, 
since ye winna answer, I’se e’en proceed wi’ my tale. 
Ye see I hae been thinking it wad be a sair thing on twa 
young folk, like Grace and me, to put aff our marriage 
for mony years till I was abroad and came back again wi’ 
some gear ; and they say folk maunna take booty in the 
wars as they did lang syne, and the queen’s pay is a small 
matter ; there’s nae gathering gear on that — and then my 
grandame’s auld — and my sisters wad sit peengin’ at the 
ingle-side for want o’ me to ding them about — and Earns- 
cliff, or the neighbourhood, or maybe your ain sell, Elshie, 
might want some gude turn that Hob Elliot could do ye 
— and it’s a pity that the auld house o’ the Heugh-foot 
should be wrecked a’thegither. Sae I was thinking — but 
deil hae me, that I should say sae,” continued he, 


THE BXACK DWARF. 


95 


checking himself, “ if I can bring mysell to ask a favour 
of ane that winna sae muckle as ware a word on me, to 
tell me if he hears me speaking till him.” 

“ Say what thou wilt — do what thou wilt,” answered 
the Dwarf from his cabin, “ but begone, and leave me at 
peace.” 

“ Weel, weel,” replied Elliot, “ since ye are willing to 
hear me, I’se make my tale short. Since ye are sae kind 
as to say ye are content to lend me as muckle siller as 
will stock and plenish the Heugh-foot, I am content, on 
my part, to accept the courtesy wi’ mony kind thanks ; 
and troth, 1 think it will be as safe in my hands as yours, 
if ye leave it flung about in that gate for the first loon body 
to lift, forbye the risk o’ bad neighbours that can win 
through steekit doors and lock-fast places, as I can tell to 
my cost. I say, since ye hae sae muckle consideration 
for me, I’se be blithe to accept your kindness ; and my 
mother and me (she’s a life-renter, and I am fiar o’ the 
lands o’ Wideope.n) would grant you a wadset, or an her- 
itable bond, for the siller, and to pay the annual-rent half- 
yearly ; and Saunders Wyliecoat to draw the bond and 
you to be at nae charge wi’ the writings.” 

“ Cut short thy jargon, and begone,” said the Dwarf ; 
“ thy loquacious bull-headed honesty makes thee a more 
intolerable plague than the light-fingered courtier who 
would take a man’s all without troubling him with either 
thanks, explanation^or apology. Hence, I say ! thou art 
one of those tame slaves whose word is as good as their 
bond. Keep the money, principal and interest, until I 
demand it of thee.” 

“ But,” continued the pertinacious Borderer, “ we are 
a’ life-like and death-like, Elshie, and there really should 
be some black and white on this transaction. Sae just 
make me a minute, or missive, in ony form ye like, and 
I’se write it fair ower, and subscribe it before famous wit- 
nesses. Only, Elshie, I wad wuss ye to pit naething in’l 
that may be prejudicial to my salvation ; for I’ll hae the 
minister to read it ower, and it wad only be exposing 
voursellto nae purpose. And now I’m ganging awa’;, for 


96 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


ye’ll be wearied o’ my cracks, and I’m wearied wi’ crack- 
ing without an answer — and I’se bring ye a bit o’ bride’s- 
cake ane o’ thae days, and maybe bring Grace to see ye. 
Ye wad like to see Grace, man, for as clour as ye are — 
Eh, Lord ! 1 wish he may be weel, that was a sair grane ! 
or, maybe, he thought I was speaking of heavenly grace, 
and no of Grace Armstrong. Poor man, I am very doubt- 
fu’ o’ his condition ; but I am sure he is as kind to me 
as if I were his son, and a queer-looking father I wad hae 
had, if that had been e’en sae.” 

Hobbie now relieved his benefactor of his presence, 
and rode blithely home to display his treasure, and con- 
sult upon the means of repairing the damage which his 
fortune had sustained through the aggression of the Red 
Reiver of Westburnflat. 


CHAPTER XI. 

Three ruffians seized me yestermorn, 

Alas ! a maiden most forlorn ; 

They choked my cries with wicked might, 

And bound me on a palfrey white : 

As sure as Heaven shall pity me, 

I cannot tell what men they be. 

Christabelle. 

The course of our story must here revert a little, to 
detail the circumstances which had placed Miss Vere ii 
the unpleasant situation from which she was unexpectedly 
and indeed unintentionally, liberated, by the appearance 
of EarnscljfF and Elliot, with their friends and followers, 
before the tower of Westburnflat. 

On the morning preceding the night in which Hobbie’s 
house was plundered and burnt. Miss Vere was requested 
by her father to accompany him in a walk through a dis- 
tant part of the romantic grounds, which lay round his 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


in 

castle of Ellieslaw. “ To hear was to obey,” in the true 
style of oriental despotism ; but Isabella trembled in si' 
lence while she followed her father through rough paths, 
now winding by the side of the river, now ascending the 
cliffs which serve for its banks. A single servant, select- 
ed perhaps for his stupidity, was the only person who rt- 
tended them. From her father’s silence, Isabella lithe 
doubted that he had chosen this distant and sequesterc d 
scene to resume the argument which they had so frequently 
maintained upon the subject of Sir Frederick’s addresses, 
and that he was meditating in what manner he shoiil I 
most effectually impress upon her the necessity of receiv- 
ing him as her suitor. But her fears seemed for some 
time to be unfounded. The only sentences which h( r 
father from time to time addressed to her, respected the 
beauties of the romantic landscape through which tin y 
strolled, and which varied its features at every step. > 
these observations, although they seemed to come from a 
heart occupied by more gloomy as well as more impor- 
tant cares, Isabella endeavoured to answ^er in a manner ::s 
free and unconstrained as it was possible for her to a - 
surne, amid the involuntary apprehensions which crowded 
upon her imagination. 

Sustaining with mutual difficulty a desultory conversa- 
tion, they at length gained the centre of a small wood, 
composed of large oaks, intermingled with birches, moun- 
tain-ashes, hazel, holly, and a variety of underwood. 
.The boughs of the tall trees met closely above, and the 
underwood filled up each interval between their trunks 
below. The spot on which they stood was rather more 
open ; still, however, embowered under the natural ar- 
cade of tall trees, and darkened on the sides for a space 
around by a great and lively growth of copsewood and 
bushes. ^ 

“ And here, Isabella,” said Mr. Vere, as he pursued 
the conversation, so often resumed, so often dropped 

here I would erect an altar to Friendship.” 

9 VOL. I. 


98 TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 

“ To Friendship, sir !” said Miss Vere, “ and why on 
this gloomy and sequestered spot, rather than elsewhere V 

“ O, the propriety of the locale is easily vindicated,” 
replied her father with a sneer. “ You know. Miss Vere, 
(for you, I am well aware, are a learned young lady,) you 
know that the Romans were not satisfied with embody- 
ing, for the purpose of worship, each useful quality and 
moral virtue to which they could give a name ; but they, 
moreover, worshipped the same under each variety oi 
titles and attributes which could give a distinct shade, or 
individual character, to the virtue in question. Now, for 
example, the Friendship to whom a temple should be 
here dedicated, is not Masculine Friendship, which abhors 
and despises duplicity, art, and disguise ; but Female 
Friendship, which consists in little else than a mutual dis- 
position on the part of the friends, as they call themselves, 
to abet each other in obscure fraud and petty intrigue.” 

“ You are severe, sir,” said Miss Vere. 

“ Only just,” said her father ; “ a humble copier I am 
from nature, with the advantage of contemplating two 
such excellent studies as Lucy Ilderton and yourself.” 

“ If 1 have been unfortunate enough to offend, sir, I 
can conscientiously excuse Miss Ilderton from being either 
my counsellor or confidant.” 

“ Indeed ! how came you, then,” said Mr. Vere, “ by 
the flippancy of speech, and pertness of argument, by 
which you have disgusted Sir Frederick, and given me 
of late such deep offence 9” 

“ If my manner has been so unfortunate as to displease 
you, sir, it is impossible for me to apologize too deeply, 
or too sincerely ; but I cannot confess the same contri 
tion for having answered Sir Frederick flippantly, when 
he pressed me rudely. Since he forgot I was a lady, it 
was time tcf show him that I am at least a woman.” 

“ Reserve then your pertness for those who press you 
on the topic, Isabella,” said her father coldly ; “ for my 
part, I am weary of the subject, and will never speak 
upon it again.” 


THK U1.ACK inVAIlF. 


99 


“ God bless you, rny dear fatlier,” said Isabella, seizing 
his reluctant hand ; “ there is nothing you can impose on 
me, save the task of listening to this man’s persecution, 
that 1 will call, or think a hardship.” 

“ You are very obliging. Miss Vere, when it happens 
to suit you to be dutiful,” said her unrelenting father, 
forcing himself at the same time from the affectionate 
grasp of her hand ; “ but henceforward, child, I shall save 
myself the trouble of offering you unpleasant advice on 
any topic. You must look to yourself.” 

At this moment four ruffians rushed upon them. Mr. 
Vere and his servant drew their hangers, which it was the 
fashion of the time to wear, and attempted to defend them- 
selves and protect Isabella. But while each of them v/as 
engaged by an antagonist, she was forced into the thicket 
by the two remaining villains, who placed her and them- 
selves on horses, which stood ready behind the copse- 
wood. They mounted at the same time, and placing 
her between them, set off at a round gallop, holding the 
leins of her horse on each side. By many an obscure 
and winding path, over dale and down, through moss and 
raoor, she was conveyed to the tower of Westburnflat, 
where she remained strictly watched, but not otherwise 
ill-treated, under the guardianship of the old woman, to 
whose son that retreat belonged. No entreaties could 
prevail upon the hag to give Miss Vere any information 
on the object of her being carried forcibly off and con- 
fined in this secluded place. The arrival of Earnscliff, 
with a strong party of horsemen before the tower, alarm- 
ed the robber. As he had already directed Grace Arm- 
strong to be restored to her friends, it did not occur to 
him that this unwelcome visit was on her account ; and 
seeing at the head of the party, Earnscliff, whose attach- 
ment to IMiss Vere was whispered in the country, he 
doubted not that her liberation was the sole object of the 
attack upon his fastness. The dread of personal conse- 
quences compelled him to deliver up his prisoner in the 
manner we have already related. 


100 


TAHiS OF UY LANDLORD. 


At the moment the tratnp of horses was heard which 
carried off the daughter of Ellieslaw, her father fell to 
the earth, and his servant, a stout young fellow , who was 
gaining ground on the ruffian with whom he had been 
engaged, left the combat to come to his master’s assist- 
ance, little doubting that he had received a mortal wound. 
Both the villains immediately desisted from farther com- 
bat, and retreating into the thicket, mounted their horses, 
and went off at full speed after their companions. Mean 
time, Dixon had the satisfaction to find Mr. Vere, not 
only alive but un wounded. He had over-reached him- 
self, and stumbled, it seemed, over the root of a tree in 
making too eager a blow at his antagonist. The despair 
he felt at his daughter’s disappearance, was, in Dixon’s 
phrase, such as would have melted the heart of a whin- 
stane, and he was so much exhausted by his feelings, and 
the vain researches which he made to discover the track 
of the ravishers, that a considerable time elapsed ere he 
reached home, and communicated the alarm to his do- 
mestics. 

All his conduct and gestures were those of a desperate 
man. 

“ Speak not to me. Sir Frederick,” he said impatient- 
ly ; “ you are no father — she was my child, an ungrate- 
ful one, I fear, but still my child — my only child. Where 
is Miss llderton ^ she must know something of this. It 
corresponds with what I was informed of her schemes. 
Go, Dixon, call RatclifFe here — Let him come without a 
minute’s delay. 

The person he had named at this moment entered the 
room. 

“ I say, Dixon,” continued Mr. Vere in an altered tone 
“ let Mr. Ratclilfe know, I beg the favour of liis company 
on particular business. — Ah ! my dear sir,” he proceed- 
ed. as if noticing him for the first time, “ you are the 
very man whose advice can be of the utmost service in 
this cruel extremity.” 

“ What has happened, Mr. Vere, to discompose you 
said Mr. Ratclifie gravely ; and while the Laird of El- 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


101 


lieslaw details to him, with the most animated gestures of 
grief and indignation, the singular adventure of the morn- 
ing, we shall take the opportunity to inform -our readers 
of the relative circumstances in which these gentlemen 
stood to each other. 

In early youth, Mr. Vere of Ellieslaw had been remark- 
able for a career of dissipation, which, in advanced life, 
he had exchanged for the no less destructive career of 
dark and turbulent ambition. In both cases, he had 
gratified the predominant passion without respect to the 
diminution of his private fortune, although, where such 
inducements were wanting, he was deemed close, avari- 
cious, and grasping. His affairs being much embarrassed 
by his earlier extravagance, he went to England, where he 
was understood to have formed a very advantageous mat- 
rimonial connection. He was many years absent from 
his family estate. Suddenly and unexpectedly he return- 
ed a widower, bringing with him his daughter, then a girl 
of about ten years old. From this moment his expense 
seemed unbounded in the eyes of the simple inhabitants 
of his native mountains. It was supposed he must neces- 
sarily have plunged himself deeply in debt. Yet he con- 
tinued to live in the same lavish expense, until some months 
before the commencement of our narrative, when the 
public opinion of his embarrassed circumstances was con- 
firmed, by the residence of Mr. Ratcliffe at Ellieslaw 
Castle, who, by the tacit consent, though obviously to the 
great displeasure, of the lord of the mansion, seemed, 
from the moment of his arrival, to assume and exercise a 
predominant and unaccountable influence in the manage- 
ment of his private affairs. 

Mr. Ratcliffe was a grave, steady, reserved man, in an 
advanced period of life. To those with whom he had 
occasion to speak upon business, be appeared uncommon- 
ly well versed in all its forms. With others he held little 
communication ; but in any casual intercourse, or con. 
versation, displayed tbe powers of an active and well- 
informed mind. For some time before taking up his final 
9 * VOL. I. 


102 


TALES or MY LANDLORD. 


residence at the castle, he had been an occasional visiter 
there, and was at such times treated by Mr. Vere (con- 
trary to his general practice towards those who were in- 
ferior to him in rank) with marked attention, and even 
(feference. Yet his arrival alw^ays appeared to be an em- 
barrassment to his host, and his departure a relief ;so that, 
when he became a constant inmate of the family, it was 
impossible not to observe indications of the displeasure 
with which Mr. Vere regarded his presftice. Indeed, 
their intercourse formed a singular mixture of confidence 
and constraint. Mr. Vere’s most important affairs were 
regulated by Mr. Ratclifie ; and although he was none of 
those indulgent men of fortune, who, too indolent to man- 
age their own business, are glad to devolve it upon anoth- 
er, yet, in many instances, he was observed to give up 
his own judgment, and submit to the contrary opinions 
which Mr. Ralcliffe did not hesitate distinctly to express. 

Nothing seemed to vex Mr. Vere more than when 
strangers indicated any observation of the state of tutelage 
under which he appeared to labour. When it was notic- 
ed by Sir Frederick, or any of his intimates, he sometimes 
repelled their remarks haughtily and indignantly, and 
sometimes endeavoured to evade them, by saying, with a 
forced laugh, “ That Ratcliffe knew his own importance, 
but that he was the most honest and skilful fellow in the 
world ; and that it would be impossible for him to man- 
age his English affairs without his advice and assistance.” 
Such was the person who entered the room at the moment 
Mr. Vere was summoning him to his presence, and who 
now heard with surprise, mingled with obvious increduli- 
ty, the hasty narrative of what had befallen Isabella. 

Her father concluded, addressing Sir Frederick, and 
the other gentlemen, who stood around in astonishment, 
‘‘ And now, my friends, you see the most unhappy father 
in Scotland. Lend me your assistance, gentlemen — give 
me your advice, Mr. Ratcliffe. I am incapable of act- 
ing, or thinking, under the unexpected violence of such 
a blow. 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


103 


*• Let us take our horses, call our attendants, ana scoui 
the country in pursuit of the villains,” said Sir Frederick. 

“ Is there no one whom you can suspect,” said Rat- 
clifFe, gravely, “ of having some motive for this strange 
crime 9 These are not the days of romance, when ladies 
are carried off merely for their beauty.” 

“ I fear,” saidMr. Vere, “ I can loo well account for 
this strange incident. Read this letter, which Miss Lucy 
Ilderton thought fit to address from my house of Ellies- 
law to young Mr. EarnsclifF, whom, of all men, I have a 
hereditary right to call my enemy. You see she writes 
to him as the confidant of a passion which he has the as- 
surance to entertain for my daughter ; tells him she serves 
his cause with her friend very ardently, but that he has a 
friend in the garrison who serves him yet more effectually. 
Look particularly at the pencilled passages, Mr. Ratcliffe, 
where this meddling girl recommends bold measures, with 
an assurance that his suit would be successful any where 
beyond the bounds of the barony of Ellieslaw.” 

“ And you argue, from this romantic letter of a very 
romantic young lady, Mr. Vere,” said Ratcliffe, “ that 
young Earnscliff ffiis carried off your daughter, and com- 
mitted a very great and criminal act of violence, on no 
better advice and assurance than that of Miss Lucy Il- 
derton ?” 

“ What else can I think *?” said Ellieslaw. 

“ What else can you think 9” said Sir Frederick ; “ or 
who else could have any motive for committing such a 
crime 9” 

“ Were that the best mode of fixing the guilt,” said 
Mr. Ratcliffe, calmly, ‘‘ there might easily be pointed out 
persons to whom such actions are more congenial, and 
who have also sufficient motives of instigation. Suppos- 
ing it were judged advisable to remove Miss Vere to some 
place in which constraint might be exercised upon her 
inclinations to a degree which cannot at present be at- 
tempted under the roof of Ellieslaw Castle — What says 
Sir Frederick Langley to that supposition 9” 


104 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


“ I say,” returned Sir Frederick, ‘‘ that although Mr 
Vere may choose to endure in Mr. RatclifFe freedoms to- 
tally inconsistent with his situation in life, 1 will not permit 
such license of innuendo, by word or look, to be extend- 
ed to me, with impunity.” 

“ And J say,” said young Mareschal of Mareschal 
Wells, who was also a guest at the castle, “ that you are 
all starl#-mad to be standing wrangling here, instead of 
going in pursuit of the ruffians.” 

“ I have ordered off the domestics already in the track 
most likely to overtake them,” said Mr. Vere ; “ if you 
will favour me with your company, we will follow them, 
iind assist in the search.” 

The efforts of the party were totally unsuccessful, pro- 
bably because Ellieslaw directed the pursuit to proceed 
in the direction of Earnscliff-Tower, under the supposi- 
tion that the owner would prove to be the author of the 
violence, so that they followed a direction diametrically 
opposite to that in which the ruffians had actually proceed- 
ed. In the evening, they returned, harassed and out ol 
spirits. But other guests had, in the meanwhile, arrived 
at the castle ; and, after the recent loss sustained by the 
owner had been related, wondered at, and lamented, the 
recollection of it was, for the present, drowned in the dis- 
cussion of deep political intrigues, of which the crisis and 
explosion were momentarily looked for. 

Several of the gentlemen who took part in this divan 
were catholics, and all o£ them stanch Jacobites, whose 
hopes were at present at the highest pitch, as an invasion, 
in favour of the Pretender, was daily expected from 
France, which Scotland, between the defenceless state oi 
its garrisons and fortified places, and the general disaffec- 
tion of the inhabitants, was rather prepared to welcome 
than to resist. Ratcliffe, who neither sought to assist at 
their consultations on this subject, nor was invited to (\q 
so, had, in the meanwhile, retired to his own apartment. 
Miss llderton was sequestered from society in a sort o^ 
honourable confinement, ‘f until,” said Mr. Vere^ “ she 


THE BEACK DWAllF. 


105 


should be safely conveyed home to her father’s house,’’ 
an opportunity for which occurred on the following day 
The domestics could not help thinking it remarkable 
liow soon the loss of Miss Vere, and the strange mannei 
in which it had happened, seemed to be forgotten by the 
other*guesls at the castle. They knew not that those the 
most interested in her fate were well acquainted with the 
cause of her being carried off and the place of her retreat ; 
and that the others, in the anxious and doubtful moments 
which preceded the breaking forth of a conspiracy, were 
little accessible to any feelings but what arose immediately 
out of their own machinations. 


CHAPTER XII. 

Some one way, some another — Do you know 
Where we may apprehend her ? 

The researches after Miss Vere were (for the sake of 
appearances, perhaps) resumed on the succeeding day, 
with similar bad success, and the party were returning to- 
wards Ellieslaw in the evening. 

“ It is singular,” said Mareschal to Ratcliffe, “ that four 
horsemen and a female prisoner should have passed 
through the country without leaving the slightest trace of 
their passage. One would think they had traversetf the 
air, or sunk through the ground.” 

“ Men may often,” answered Ratcliffe, ‘‘ arrive at the 
knowledge of that which is, from discovering that which 
is not. We have now scoured every road, path, and 
track, leading from the castle, in all the various points oi 
the compass, saving only that intricate and difficult pass 
which leads southward down the Westburn, and through 
the morasses.” 


106 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


“ And why have we not examined that 9” said Mare^ 
schal. 

“ O, Mr. Vere can best answer that question,” replied 
his companion, dryly. 

“ Then I will ask it instantly,” said Mareschal ; and, 
addressing Mr. Vere, “ I am informed, sir,” said he, 
“ there is a path we have not examined, leading by West- 
burnflat.” 

“ O,” said Sir Frederick, laughing, “ we know the 
owner of Westburnflat well — a wild lad, that knows little 
difference between his neighbour’s goods and his own ; 
but, withal, very honest to his principles — he would dis- 
turb nothing belonging to Ellieslaw.” 

“ Besides,” said Mr. Vere, smiling mysteriously, “ he 
had other tow on his distaff last night. Have yOu not 
heard young Elliot of the Heugh-foot has had his house 
burnt and his cattle driven away, because he refused to 
give up his arms to some honest men that think of start- 
ing for the King *?” 

The company smiled upon each other, as at hearing of 
an exploit which favoured their own views. 

“ Yet, nevertheless,” resumed Mareschal, “ I think we 
ought to ride in this direction also, otherways we shall 
certainly be blamed for our negligence.” 

No reasonable objection could be offered to this propo- 
sal, and the party turned their horses’ heads towards 
Westburnflat. 

They had not proceeded very far in that direction when 
th^trampling of horses was heard, and a small body of 
riders were perceived advancing to meet them. 

“ There comes Earnscliff,” said Mareschal ; “ 1 know 
his bright bay with the star in his front.” 

“ And there is my daughter along with him,” exclaim- 
ed Vere, furiously. “ Who shall call my suspicions false 
or injurious now Gentlemen — friends — lend me the 
assistance of your swords for the recovery of my child.” 

He unsheathed his weapon, and was imitated by Sir 
Fiederick and several of the party, who prepared to 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


107 


charge those that were advancing towards them. But 
the greater part hesitated. 

“ They come to us in all peace and security,” said 
Mareschal- Wells ; “ let us first hear what account they 
give us of this mysterious affair. If Miss Vere has sus- 
tained the slightest insult or injury from Earnscliff, I will 
be first to revenge her ; but let us hear what they say.” 

“ You do me wrong by your suspicions, Mareschal,” 
continued Vere ; “ you are the last 1 would have expect- 
ed to hear express them.” 

“ You injure yourself, Ellieslaw, by your violence, 
though the cause may excuse it.” 

He then advanced a little before the rest, and called 
out, with a loud voice, — “ Stand, Mr. Earnscliff j or do 
you and Miss Vere advance alone to meet us. You 
are charged with having carried that lady off from hei 
father’s house ; and we are here in arms to shed our best 
blood for her recovery, and for bringing to justice those 
who have injured her.” 

“ And who would do that more willingly than I, Mr. 
Mareschal *?” said Earnscliff, haughtily, — “ than I, who 
had the satisfaction this morning to liberate her from the 
dungeon in which 1 found her confined, and who am now 
escorting her back to the castle of Ellieslaw V' 

Is this so, Miss Vere 9” said Mareschal. 

“ It is,” answered Isabella, eagerly, — “ it is so ; for 
Heaven’s sake, sheathe your swords. I will swear by all 
that is sacred, that 1 was carried off by ruffians, whose 
persons and object were alike unknown to me, and ^ am 
now restored to freedom by means of this gentleman’s 
gallant interference.” 

“ By whom, and wherefore, could this have been 
done 9” pursued Mareschal. — “ Had you no knowledge 
i)f the place to Avhich you were conveyed 9 — Earnscliff, 
where did you find this lady V' 

But ere either question could be answered, Ellieslaw 
advanced, and, returning his sword to the scabbard, cu 
short the conference. 


108 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


“ When I know,” he said, “ exactly how much I owe 
to Mr. EarnsclifF, he may rely on suitable acknowledg- 
ments ; meantime,” taking the bridle of Miss Vere’s 
horse, “ thus far I thank him for replacing my daughter 
in the power of her natural guardian.” 

A sullen bend of the head was returned by Earnscliff 
with equal haughtiness ; and Ellieslaw, turning back with 
his daughter upon the road to his own house, appeared 
engaged with her in a conference so earnest, that the rest 
of the company judged it improper to intrude by ap- 
proaching them too nearly. In the mean time, Earnscliff, 
as he took leave of the other gentlemen belonging to 
Ellieslaw’s party, said aloud, “ Although 1 am unconscious 
of any circumstance in my conduct that can authorize 
such a suspicion, I cannot but observe, that Mr. Vere 
seems to believe that 1 have had some hand in the atro- 
cious violence which has been offered to his daughter. I 
request you, gentlemen, to take notice of my explicit de- 
nial of a charge so dishonourable ; and that, although I 
can pardon the bewildering feelings of a father in such a 
moment, yet, if any other gentleman,” (he looked hard 
at Sir Frederick Langley) “ thinks my word and that oi 
Miss Vere, with the evidence of my friends who accom- 
pany me, too slight for my exculpation, I will be happy 
—most happy — to repel the charge as becomes a man 
who counts his honour dearer than his life.” 

“ And ril be bis second,” said Simon of Hackburn, 
“ and take up ony twa o’ ye, gentle or semple, laird or 
loon ; it’s a’ ane to Simon.” 

“ Who is that rough-looking fellow said Sir Fred- 
erick Langley, “ and wha\ has he to do with the quarrel 
of gentlemen'?”, 

“ I’se be a lad frae the Hie Te’iot,” said Simon, “ and 
I’se quarrel wi’ ony body 1 like, except the King, or the 
laird 1 live under.” 

“ Come,” said Mareschal, “ let us have no brawls — • 
Mr. Earnscliff, although we do not think alike in some 
things, I trust we may be opponents, even enemies, if for- 
tune will have it so, without losing our respect for birth, 


THE BLACK DWABF. 


109 


fair-play, and each other. I believe you as innocent of 
this matter as I am myself ; and I will pledge myself that 
my cousin Eilieslaw, as soon as the perplexity attending 
these sudden events has left his judgment to its free ex- 
ercise, shall handsomely acknowledge the very important 
service you have this day rendered him.” 

“ To have served your cousin is a sufficient reward in 
itself. — Good evening, gentlemen,” continued EarnscliiF, 
“ I see most of your party are already on their way to 
Eilieslaw.” 

Then saluting Mareschal with courtesy, and the rest of 
the party with indifference, Earnscliff turned his horse 
and rode towards the Heugh-foot, to concert measures 
with Hobbie Elliot for farther researches after his bride, 
of whose restoration to her friends he was still ignorant. 

“ There he goes,” said Mareschal ; “ he is a fine, gal- 
lant young fellow, upon my soul ; and yet I should like 
well to have a thrust with him on the green turf. I was 
reckoned at college nearly his equal with the foils, and I 
should like to try him at sharps.” 

“ In my opinion,” answered Sir Frederick Langley, 
“ we have done very ill in haviilg suffered him, and those 
men who are with him, to go off without taking away 
their arms ; for the whigs are very likely to draw to a 
head under such a sprightly young fellow as that.” 

“ For shame, Sir Frederick !” exclaimed Mareschal ; 
“ do you think that Eilieslaw could, in honour, consent 
to any violence being offered to Earnscliff, when he en- 
tered his bounds only to bring back his daughter 9 or, if 
he were to be of your opinion, do you think that and 
the rest of these gentlemen, would disgrace ourselves by 
assisting in such a transaction 9 No, no, fair-play and auid 
Scotland forever! When the sword is drawn, I will be 
as ready to use it as any man ; but while it is in the sheath, 
let us behave like gentlemen and neighbours.” 

Soon after this colloquy they reached the castle, when 
Eilieslaw, who had been arrived a few rn.nr «:es before, 
met them in the court-yard 
JO VOL. I. 


110 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


“ How is Miss Vere 9 and have you learned the cause 
of her being carried off 9” asked Mareschal hastily. 

“ She is retired to her apartment greatly fatigued, and 
I cannot expect much light upon her adventure till her 
spirits are somewhat recruited,” replied her father. “ She 
and I were not the less obliged to you, Mareschal, and to 
my other friends, for their kind inquiries. But I must 
suppress the father’s feelings for a while to give myself up 
to those of the patriot. You know this is the day fixed for 
our final decision — time presses — our friends are arriving, 
and I have opened house, not only for the gentry, but for 
the under-spur-leathers whom we must necessarily em- 
ploy. We have, therefore, little time to prepare to meet 
them. — Look over these lists, Marchie, (an abbreviation 
by which Mareschal-Wells was known among his friends.) 
Do you. Sir Frederick, read these letters from Lothian 
and the west — all is ripe for the sickle, and we have but 
to summon out the reapers.” 

“ With all my heart,” said Mareschal ; “ the more mis- 
chief the better sport.” 

Sir Frederick looked grave and disconcerted. 

“ Walk aside with m^ my good friend,” said Ellieslaw 
to the sombre baronet, “ I have something for your pri- 
vate ear, with which I know you will be gratified.” 

They walked into the house, leaving RatclifFe and 
Mareschal standing together in the court. 

“ And so,” said RatclifFe, “ the gentlemen of your 
political persuasion think the downfall of this government 
so certain, that they disdain even to throw a decent dis- 
guise over the machinations of their party ?” 

“ Faith, Mr. RatclifFe,” answered Mareschal, “ the 
actions and sentiments of your friends may require to be 
veiled, but lam better pleased that ours can go bare- 
faced.” 

“ And is it possible,” continued RatclifFe, “ that you, 
who, notwithstanding your thoughtlessness and heat Oi 
temper, (I beg pardon, Mr. Mareschal, I am a plain man) 
— that you, who, notwithstanding these constitutional de- 
ects, possess natural good sense and acquired informa- 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


Ill 


tion, should be infatuated enough to embroil yourself in 
such desperate proceedings 9 How does your head feel 
when you are engaged in these dangerous conferences 9” 

“ Not quite so secure on my shoulders,” answered 
Mareschal, “ as if I were talking of hunting and hawk- 
ing. I am not of so indifferent a mould as my cousin 
Ellieslaw, who speaks treason as if it were a child’s nur- 
sery rhymes, and loses and recovers that sweet girl, his 
daughter, with a good deal less emotion on both occasions, 
than would have affected me had I lost and recovered a 
grey hound puppy. My temper is not quite so inflexible, 
nor my hate against government so inveterate, as to blind 
me to the full danger of the attempt.” 

“ Then why involve yourself in it .^” said Ratcliffe. 

“ Why, 1 love this poor exiled king with all my heart ; 
and my father was an old Killiecrankie-man, and I long 
to see some amends on the Unionist courtiers that have 
bought and sold old Scotland, whose crown has been so 
long independent.” 

“ And for the sake of these shadows,” said his moni- 
tor, “ you are going to involve your country in war, and 
yourself in trouble .^” 

“ I involve ? No ! — but, trouble for trouble, I had 
rather it came to-morrow than a month hence. Come, I 
know it will ; and, as your country folks say, better soon 
than syne — it will never find me younger — and, as for 
hanging, as Sir John Falstaff says, I can become a gallows 
as well as another. You know the end of the old ballad ; 

‘ Sae dauntonly, sae wantonly, 

Sae raniingly gaed he, 

He play’d a spring, and danced a round, 

Beneath the gallows tree/ ” 

“ Mr. Mareschal, I am sorry for you,” said his grave 
adviser. 

“ [ am obliged to you, Mr. Ratcliffe ; but I would not 
have you judge of our enterprize by my way of vindicat- 
ing it ; there are wiser heads than mine at the work.” 


112 


TAIiES OF MY JLANDLOKD. 


Wiser heads than yours may lie as low,” said Rat- 
clilfe, in a warning tone. 

“ Perhaps so ; but no lighter heart shall ; and, to pre- 
vent it being made heavier by your remonstrances, I will 
bid you adieu, Mr. RalclifTe, till dinner-time, when you 
shall see that my apprehensions have not spoiled my ap- 
petite.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

To face the garment of rebellion 

With some fine colour that may please the eye 

Of fickle changelings, and poor discontents, 

Which gape and rub the elbow at the news 
Of hurlyburly innovation. 

Hmry /f. PaH 11. 

There had been great preparations made at Ellieslaw 
Castle for the entertainment on this important day, when 
not only the gentlemen of note in the neighbourhood, at- 
tached to the Jacobite interest, were expected to rendez- 
vous, but also many subordinate malecontents,whom diffi- 
culty of circumstances, love of change, resentment against 
England, or any of the numerous causes which inflamed 
men’s passions at the time, rendered apt to join in peril- 
ous enterprize. The men of rank and substance were 
not many in number ; for almost all the large proprietors 
stood aloof, and most of the smaller gentry and yeomanry 
were of the Presbyterian persuasion, and, therefore, how- 
ever displeased with the Union, unwilling to engage in a 
Jacobite conspiracy. But there were some gentlemen of 
property, who, either from early principle, from religious 
motives, or sharing the ambitious views of Ellieslaw, had 
given countenance to his schemes ; and there were, also, 
some fiery young men, like Mareschal, desirous of sig- 
nalizing themselves, by engaging in a dangerous enter- 
prize, by which they hoped to vindicate the independence 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


113 


of their country. The other members of the party were 
persons of inferior rank and desperate fortunes, who were 
now ready to rise in that part of the country, as they did 
afterwards in the year 1715, under Foster and Derwent- 
water, when a troop, commanded by a Border gentleman, 
named Douglas, consisted almost entirely of freebooters, 
among whom the notorious Luck-in-a-bag, as he was call- 
ed, held a distinguished command. We think it neces 
sary to mention these particulars, applicable solely to the 
province in which our scene lies j because, unquestionably, 
the Jacobite party, in the other parts of the kingdom, con- 
sisted of much more formidable, as well as much more 
respectable, materials. 

One long table extended itself down the ample hall of 
Ellieslaw Castle, which was still left much in the state in 
which it had been one hundred years before, stretching, 
that is, in gloomy length, along the whole side of the 
Castle, vaulted with ribbed arches of freestone, the groins 
of which sprung from projecting figures, that, carved into 
all the wild forms which the fantastic imagination of a 
Gothic architect could devise, grinned, frowmed, and 
gnashed their tusks at the assembly below. Long nar- 
row windows lighted the banquetting room on both sides, 
filled up with stained glass, through which the sun emitted 
a dusky and discoloured light. A banner, which tradi- 
tion averred to have been taken from the English at the 
battle of Sark, waved over the chair in which Ellieslaw 
presided, as if to inflame the courage of the guests, by 
reminding them of ancient victories over their neighbours. 
He himself, a portly figure, dressed on this occasion 
with uncommon care, and with features, which, though 
of a stern and sinister expression, might well be termed 
handsome, looked the old feudal baron extremely well. 
Sir Frederick Langley w^as placed on his right hand, and 
Mr. Mareschal of Mareschal-Wells, on his left. Some 
gentlemen of consideration, with their sons, brothers, and 
nephews, were seated at the upper end of the table, ana 
among these Mr. RatclifFe had his place. Beneath the 
10* VOL. I. 


n4 TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 

salt-cellar (a massive piece of plate which occupied the 
midst of the table) sat the sine nomine turba, men whose 
vanity was gratified by holding even this subordinate 
space at the social board, while the distinction observed 
in ranking them, was a salvo to the pride of their superi- 
ors. That the lower house was not very select must be 
admitted, since Willie of Westburnflat was one of the 
party. The unabashed audacity of this fellow, in daring 
to present himself in the house of a gentleman, to whom 
he had just offered so flagrant an insult, can only be ac- 
counted for by supposing him conscious that his share in 
carrying off Miss Vere was a secret, safe in her posses- 
sion and that of her father! 

Before this numerous and miscellaneous party was 
placed a dinner, consisting, not indeed of the delicacies 
of the season, as the newspapers express it, but of viands, 
ample, solid, and sumptuous, under which the very board 
groaned. But the mirth was not in proportion to the 
good cheer. The lower end of the table were, for some 
time, chilled by constraint and respect on finding them- 
selves members of so august an assembly ; and those 
who were placed around it had those feelings of awe 
w'ith which P. P., clerk of the parish, describes himself 
oppressed, when he first uplifted the psalm in presence of 
those persons of high worship, the wise Mr. Justice Free- 
man, the good Lady Jones, and the great Sir Thomas 
Truby. This ceremonious frost, however, soon gave 
way before the incentives to merriment, which were lib- 
erally supplied, and as liberally consumed by the guests of 
the lower description. They became talkative, loud, 
and even clamorous in their mirth. 

But it was not in the power of wine or brandy to ele- 
vate the spirits of those who held the higher places of 
the banquet. They experienced the chilling revulsion of 
spirits which often takes place, when men are called upon 
to take a desperate resolution, after having placed them- 
selves in circumstances where it is alike difficult to ad- 
vance or to recede. The precipice looked deeper and 
more dangerous as they approached the brink, and each 


THE BLACK DWABE. 


115 


waited with an inward emotion of awe, expecting which 
of his confederates would set the example by plunging 
himself down. This inward sensation of fear and re- 
luctance acted differently, according to the various habits 
and characters of the company. One looked grave ; 
another looked silly ; a third gazed with apprehension on 
the empty seats at the higher end of the table, designed 
for members of the conspiracy, whose prudence had pre- 
vailed over their political zeal, and who had absented 
themselves from their consultations at this critical period ; 
and some seemed to be reckoning up in their minds the 
comparative rank and prospects of those who were present 
and absent. Sir Frederick Langley was reserved, moody, 
and discontented. Ellieslaw himself made such forced 
efforts to raise the spirits of the company, as plainl}^ 
marked the flagging of his own. Ratcliffe watched the 
scene with the composure of a vigilant but uninterested 
spectator. Mareschal alone, true to the thoughtless 
vivacity of his character, eat and drank, laughed and 
jested, and seemed even to find amusement in the embar- 
rassment of the company. 

“ What has damped our noble courage this morning 9” 
he exclaimed. “We seem to be met at a funeral, where 
the chief mourners must not speak above their breath, 
while the mutes and the saulees (looking to the lower end 
of the table) are carousing below. Ellieslaw, when will 
you lift where sleeps your spirit, man 9 and what has 
quelled the high hope of the Knight of Langley-dale 9” 

“ You speak like a madman,” said Ellieslaw ; “ Do 
you not see how many are absent 9” 

“ And what of that,” said Mareschal } “ Did you not 
know before, that one-half of the world are better talkers 
than doers ^ For my part, I am much encouraged by see- 
ing at least two-thirds of our friends true to the rendez- 
vous, though I suspect one-half of these came to secure 
the dinner in case of the worst.” 

“ There is no news from the coast which can amount 
to certainty of the King’s arrival,” said another of 


116 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 

the company, in that tone of subdued and tremulous 
whisper which implies a failure of resolution. 

“ Not a line from the Earl of D , nor a single 

gentleman from the southern side of the Border,” said a 
third. 

‘‘ Who is he that wishes for more men frOm England,” 
exclaimed Mareschal, in a theatrical tone of affected 
heroism, 

* My cousin Ellieslaw ? No, my fair cousin, 

If we are doomed to die ' ” 

“ For God’s sake,” said Ellieslaw, “ spare us your 
folly at present, Mareschal.” 

“ Well, then,” said his kinsman, “ I’ll bestow my 
wisdom upon you instead, such as it is. If we have gone 
forward like fools, do not let us go back like cowards. 
We have done enough to draw upon us both the suspicion 
and vengeance of the government ; do not let us give up 
before we have done something to deserve it. — What, 
will no one speak Then I’ll leap the ditch the first.” 
And, starting up, he filled a beer-glass to the brim with 
claret, and waving his hand, commanded all to follow his 
example, and to rise up from their seats. All obeyed — 
the more qualified guests as if passively, the others with 
enthusiasm. “ Then, my friends, I give you the pledge 
of the day — The independence of Scotland, and the 
health of our lawful sovereign. King James the Eighth, 
now landed in Lothian, and, as I trust and believe, in full 
possession of his ancient capital !” 

He quaffed off the wine, and threw the glass over his 
head. 

“ It should never,” he said, “ be profaned by a mean- 
er toast.” 

All followed his example, and, amid the crash of glass- 
es and the shouts of the company, pledged themselves to 
stand or fall with the principles and political interest 
which their toast expressed. 

“ You have leaped the ditch with a witness,” said 
Ellieslaw, apart to Mareschal ; “ but I believe it s all 
for the best ; at all events, we cannot now retreat from 


THE BLACK DWAUF. 


117 


our undertaking. One man alone,” (looking at RatclifFe) 

has refused the pledge ; but of that by and by ” 

Then, rising up, he addressed the company in a style 
of inflammatory invective against the government and its 
measures, but especially the Union ; a treaty, by means oi 
which, he affirmed, Scotland had been at once cheated 
of her independence, her commerce, and her honour, 
and laid, as a fettered slave, at the foot of the rival, 
against whom, through such a length of ages, through so 
many dangers, and by so much blood, she had honoura- 
bly defended her rights. This was touching a theme 
which found a responsive chord in the bosom of every 
man present. 

“ Our commerce is destroyed,” hollowed old John 
Rewcastle, a Jedburgh smuggler, from the lower end of 
the table. 

Our agriculture is ruined,” said the Laird of Brok- 
en-girth-flow, a territory, which, since the days of Adam, 
had borne nothing but ling and whortleberries. 

“ Our religion is cut up, root and branch,” said the 
pimple-nosed pastor of the Episcopal meeting-house at 
Kirkwhistle. 

“We shall shortly neither dare shoot a deer, nor kiss 
a wench, without a certificate from the presbytery and 
kirk-treasurer,” said Mareschal-Wells. 

“ Or make a brandy Jeroboam in a frosty morning, 
without license from a commissioner of excise,” said the 
smuggler. 

“ Or ride over the fell in a moonless night,” said 
Westburnflat, “ without asking leave of young Earns- 
cliff, or some Englified justice of the peace : fhae were 
gude days on the Border when there was neither peace 
nor justice heard of.” 

“ Let us remember our wrongs at Darien and Glen- 
coe,” continued Ellieslaw, “ and take arms for the pro- 
tection of our rights, our fortunes, our lives, and our 
families.” 

“ Think upon genuine episcopal ordination, without 
which there can be no lawful clergy,” said the divine. 


118 


TALES OF MY LANDLOllD. 


“ Think of the piracies committed on our East Indian 
trade, by Green and the English thieves,” said William 
Willieson, half-owner and sole skipper of a brig, that 
made four voyages annually between Cockpool and 
Whitehaven. 

“ Remember your liberties,” rejoined Mareschal, who 
seemed to take a mischievous delight in precipitating the 
movements of the enthusiasm which he had excited, like 
a roguish boy, who, having lifted the sluice of a mill-dam, 
enjoys the clatter of the wheels which he has put in 
motion, without thinking of the mischief he may have oc- 
casioned. “ Remember your liberties,” he exclaimed ; 
“ confound cess, press, and presbytery, and the memory 
of old Willie that first brought them upon us !” 

“ Damn the gauger!” echoed old John Rewcastle ; 
“ I’ll cleave him wi’ my ain hand.” 

“ And confound the country-keeper and the consta- 
ble,” re-echoed Westburnflat ; “ I’ll weize a brace of 
balls through them before morning.” 

“ We are agreed then,” said Ellieslaw, when the 
shouts had somewhat subsided, “ to bear this state of 
things no longer 

“We are agreed to a man,” answered his guests. 

“ Not literally so,” said Mr. RatclifFe ; “ for though 
I cannot hope to assuage the violent symptoms which 
seem so suddenly to have seized upon the company, yet 
I beg to observe, that so far as the opinion of a single 
member goes, I do not entirely coincide in the list of 
grievances which has been announced, and that I do ut- 
terly protest against the frantic measures which you seem 
disposed to adopt for removing them. I can easily sup- 
pose much of what has been spoken may have arisen out 
of the heat of the moment, or have been said perhaps in 
jest. But there are some jests of a nature very apt to 
transpire ; and you ought to remember, gentlemen, that 
stone-walls have ears.” 

“ Stone-walls may have ears,” returned Ellieslaw 
eyeing him with a look of triumphant malignity, “ but 
domestic spies, Mr. RatclifFe, will soon find themselves 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


119 


without any, if any such dares to continue his abode in a 
family where his coming was an unauthorized intrusion, 
where his conduct has been that of a presumptuous med- 
dler, and from which his exit shall be that of a baffled 
knave, if he does not know how to take a hint.” 

“ Mr. Vere,” returned Ratcliffe, with calm contempt, 
“ I am fully aware that as soon as my presence becomes 
useless to you, which it must through the rash step you 
are about to adopt, it will immediately become unsafe to 
myself, as it has always been hateful to you. But 1 have 
one protection, and it is a strong one ; for you would not 
willingly hear me detail before gentlemen, and men of 
honour, the singular circumstances in which our connec- 
tion took its rise. As to the rest, I rejoice at its conclu- 
sion ; and, as I think that Mr. Mareschal and some other 
gentlemen will guarantee the safety of my ears and of 
my throat, (for which last I have more reason to be ap- 
prehensive) during the course of the night, I shall not 
leave your castle till to-morrow morning.” 

“ Be it so, sir,” replied Mr. Vere,“ you are entirely safe 
from my resentment, because you are beneath it, and 
not because I am afraid of your disclosing any family 
secrets, although, for your own sake, I warn you to be- 
ware how you do so. Your agency and intermediation 
can be of little consequence to one who will win or lose 
all, as lawful right or unjust usurpation shall succeed in 
the struggle that is about to ensue. Farewell, sir.” 

Ratcliffe arose, and cast upon him a look, which Vere 
seemed to sustain with difficulty, and, bowing to those 
around him, left the room. 

This conversation made an impression on many of the 
company, which Ellieslaw hastened to dispel, by entering 
upon the business of the day. Their hasty deliberations 
went to organize an immediate insurrection. Ellieslaw, 
Mareschal, and Sir Frederick Langley, were chosen 
leaders, with powers to direct their farther measures. A 
place of rendezvous was appointed, at which all agreed 
to meet early on the ensuing day, with such followers and 
friends to the cause as each could collect around him. 


120 TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 

Several of the guests retired to make the necessary pre- 
parations ; and Ellieslaw made a formal apology to the 
others, wiio, with Westburnflat and the old smuggler, con- 
tinued to ply the bottle stanchly, for leaving the head of 
the table, as he must necessarily hold a separate and sober 
conference with the coadjutors whom they had associated 
with him in the command. The apology was the more 
readily accepted, as he prayed them, at the same time, to 
continue to amuse themselves with such refreshments as 
the cellars of the castle afforded. Shouts of applause 
followed their retreat ; and the names of Vere, Lang- 
ley, and, above all, of Mareschal, were thundered forth 
in chorus, and bathed with copious bumpers repeatedly, 
during the remainder of the evening. 

When the principal conspirators had retired into a sep- 
arate apartment, they gazed on each other for a minute 
with a sort of embarrassment, which, in Sir ‘Frederick’s 
dark features, amounted to an expression of discontented 
sullenness. Mareschal was the first to break the pause, 
saying with a loud burst of laughter, — Well ! we are 
fairly embarked now, gentlemen — vogue la galere /” 

“We may thank you for the plunge,” said Ellieslaw. 

“ Yes ; but I don’t know how far you will thank me,” 
answered IMareschal, “ when I show you this letter, 
which 1 received just before we sat down. My servant 
told me it was delivered by a man he had never seen be- 
fore, who went off at the gallop, after charging him to 
put it into my own hand.” 

Ellieslaw impatiently opened the letter, and read 
aloud — 

Edinburgh^ 

Hond. Sir, 

Having obligations to your family, which shall be name- 
less, and learning that you are one of the company o! 
adventurers doing business for the house of James and 
Company, late merchants in London, now in Dunkirk, 1 
think it right to send you this early and private informa- 
tion, that the vessels you expected have been driven off 
the coast, without having been able to break bulk, or to 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


121 


land any part of their cargo , and that the west-country 
partners have resolved to withdraw their name from the 
firm, as it must prove a losing concern. Having good 
hope you will avail yourself of this early information, to 
do what is needful for your own security, I rest your 
humble servant. Nihil Nameless 

For Ralph Mareschal, of Mar eschal- Wells — 

These, with care and speed. 

Sir Frederick’s jaw dropped, and his countenance 
blackened as the letter was read, and Ellieslaw exclaim- 
ed, — “ Why, this affects the very main-spring of our 
enlerprize. If the French fleet with the King on board, 
has been chased off by the English, as this d — d scrawl 
seems to intimate, where are we 

“ Just where we were this morning, I think,” said 
Mareschal, still laughing. 

“ Pardon me, and a truce to your ill-timed mirth, Mr. 
Mareschal ; this morning we were not committed public- 
ly, as we now stand committed by your own mad act, 
when you had a letter in your pocket apprizing you that 
our undertaking was desperate.” 

“ Ay, ay, I expected you would say so. But, in the 
first place, my friend Nihil Nameless and his letter may 
be all a flam ; and moreover, I would have you know 
that I am tired of a party that does nothing but form bold 
resolutions over night, and sleep them away with their 
wine before morning. The government are now unpro- 
vided of men and ammunition ; in a few weeks they will 
have enough of both : the country is now in a flame 
against them ; in a few weeks, betwixt the effects of 
self-interest, of fear, and of lukewarm indifference, which 
are already so visible, this first fervour will be as cold as 
Christmas. So, as I was determined to go the vole, I have 
taken care you shall dip as deep as I ; it signifies nothing 
plunging. You are fairly in the bog, and must struggle 
through.” 

“You are mistaken with respect to one of us, Mr 
11 VOL. I. 


122 


TALES or MY LANDLORD. 


Mareschal,” said Sir Frederick Lanpjley ; and applying 
himself to the bell, he desired the person who entered to 
order his servants and horses instantly. 

“ You must not leave us, Sir Frederick ” said Ellies- 
law, “ we have our musters to go over.” 

“ I will go to-night, Mr. Vere,” said Sir Frederick, 
“ and write you my intentions in this matter when 1 am 
at home.” 

“ Ay,” said Mareschal, “ and send them by a troop 
of horse from Carlisle to make us prisoners 9 Look ye, 
Sir Frederick, I for one will neither be deserted nor be- 
trayed ; and if you leave Ellieslaw Castle to-night, it 
shall be by passing over my dead body.” 

“ For shame ! Mareschal,” said Mr. Vere, “ how 
can you so hastily misinterpret our friend’s intentions 9 
I am sure Sir Frederick can only be jesting with us ; 
for, were he not too honourable to dream of deserting 
the cause, he cannot but remember the full proofs we 
have of his accession to it, and his eager activity in ad- 
vancing it. He cannot but be conscious, besides, that 
the first information will be readily received by govern- 
ment, and that if the question be, which can first lodge in- 
telligence of the affair, we can easily save a few hours on 
him.” 

“ You should say you^ and not we, when you talk of 
priorities in such a race of treachery ; for my part, I 
won’t enter my horse for such a plate,” said Mareschal ; 
and added, betwixt his teeth, “ a pretty pair of fellows 
to trust a man’s neck with !” 

“ 1 am not to be intimidated from doing what I think 
proper,” said Sir Frederick Langley; “ and my first 
step shall be to leave Ellieslaw. I have no reason to 
keep faith with one, (looking at Vere,) who has kept 
none with me.” 

“ In what respect,” said Ellieslaw, silencing, with a 
motion of his hand, his impetuous kinsman — “ how have 
I disappointed you. Sir Frederick 

“ In the nearest and most tender point — you have 
trifled with me concerning our proposed alliance, which 


THE BLACK I)V/ARF. 


123 


you well knew was the gage of our political undertaking 
This carrying off, and this bringing back of Miss Vere, — 
the cold reception I have met with from her, and the ex- 
cuses with which you cover it, I believe to be mere eva- 
sions, that you may yourself retain possession of the 
estates which are her’s by right, and make me, in the 
meanwhile, a tool in your desperate enterprize, by hold- 
ing out hopes and expectations which you are resolved 
never to realize.” 

“ Sir Frederick, I protest by all that is sacred” 

“ 1 will listen to no protestations ; I have been cheated 
with them too long,” answered Sir Frederick. 

“ If you leave us,” said Ellieslaw, “ you cannot but 
know both your ruin and ours is certain ; all depends on 
our adhering together.” 

“ Leave me to take care of myself,” returned the 
knight ; “ but were what you say true, I would rather 
perish than be fooled any farther.” 

“ Can nothing — no surety convince you of my sincer- 
ity ?” said Ellieslaw, anxiously ; “ this morning I should 
have repelled your unjust suspicions as an insult; but sit- 
uated as we now are” 

“ You feel yourself compelled to be sincere retort- 
ed Sir Frederick. “ If you would have me think so, 
there is but one way to convince me of it — let your daugh- 
ter bestow her hand on me this evening.” 

“ So soon — impossible,” answered Vere ; “think of 
her late alarm — of our present undertaking.” 

“ 1 will listen to nothing but to her consent, plighted at 
the altar. You have a chapel in the castle — Doctor Hob- 
oler is present among the company — this proof of your 
good faith to-night, and we are again joined in heart and 
hand. If you refuse me when it is so much for your 
advantage to consent, how shall I trust you to-morrow, 
when I shall stand committed in your undertaking, and 
unable to retract 

“ And 1 am to understand, that, if you can be made 
my son-in-law to-night, our friendship is renewed said 
FKieslaw. 


124 


TALES OF M\ LANDLORD. 


“ Most infallibly, and most inviolably,” replied Sic 
Frederick. 

“ Then,” said Vere, “ though what you ask is pre- 
mature, indelicate, and unjust towards my character, yet, 
Sir Frederick, give me your hand — my daughter shall 
be your wife.” 

“ This night ?” 

“ This very night,” replied Ellieslaw, “ before the 
clock strikes twelve.” 

“ With her own consent, I trust,” said Mareschal ; 
“ for I promise you both, gentlemen, I will not stand 
tamely by, and see any violence put on the will of my 
pretty kinswoman.” 

“ Another pest in this hot-headed fellow,” muttered 
Ellieslaw ; and then aloud, “ With her own consent ? 
For what do you take me, Mareschal, that you should sup- 
pose your interference necessary to protect my daughter 
against her father Depend upon it, she has no repug- 
nance to Sir Frederick Langley.” 

“ Or rather to be called Lady Langley faith, like 
enough — there are many women might be of her mind ; 
and 1 beg your pardon, but these sudden demands and 
concessions alarmed me a little on her account.” 

“ It is only the suddenness of the proposal that em- 
barrasses me,” said Ellieslaw ; “ but perhaps if she is 
found intractable. Sir Frederick will consider” 

“ I will consider nothing, Mr. Vere — your daughter’s 
hand to-night, or I depart, were it at midnight — there is 
my ultimatum.” 

“ I embrace it,” said Ellieslaw ; ‘‘ and I will leave 
you to talk upon our military preparations, while I go tc 
prepare niy daughter for so sudden a change of condi- 
tion. ” 

So saying, he left the company. 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


125 


CHAPTER XIV. 

He brings Earl Osmond to receive my vows. 

O dreadful change ! for Tancred, haughty Osmond. 

Tancred and Sigismunda, 

Mr. Verb, whom long practice of dissimulation had 
enabled to model his very gait and footsteps to aid the 
purposes of deception, walked along the stone passage, 
and up the first flight of steps toward Miss Vere’s apart- 
ment, with the alert, firm, and steady pace of one, who 
is bound, indeed, upon important business, but who en- 
tertains no doubt he can terminate his affairs satisfactori- 
ly. But when out of hearing of the gentlemen whom he 
had left, his step became so slow and irresolute, as to 
correspond with his doubts and his fears. At length he 
paused in an antechamber to collect his ideas, and form 
his plan of argument before approaching his daughter. 

“ In what more hopeless and inextricable dilemma was 
ever an unfortunate man involved !” — Such was the tenor 
of his reflections. — If we now fall to pieces by disun- 
ion, there can be little doubt that the government will 
take my life as the prime agitator of the insurrection. 
Or, grant I could stoop to save myself by a hasty sub- 
mission, am I not, even in that case, utterly ruined f I 
have broken irreconcilably with Ratcliffe, and can have 
nothing to expect from that quarter but insult and perse- 
cution. I must wander forth an impoverished and dis- 
honoured man, without even the means of sustaining life, 
far less wealth sufficient to counterbalance the infamy 
which my countrymen, both those whom I desert and 
those whom I join, will attach to the name of the politi- 
cal renegade. It is not to be thought of. And yet, what 
choice remains between this lot and the ignominious 
scaffold ^ Nothing can save me but reconciliation with 
11 * VOL. I. 


126 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


these men ; and, to accomplish this, I have promised to 
Langley that Isabella shall marry him ere midnight, and, 
to Mareschal, that she shall do so without compulsion. I 
have but one remedy betwixt me and ruin — her consent 
to take a suitor whom she dislikes, upon such short no- 
tice as would disgust her, even were he a favoured lover 
— But I must trust to the romantic generosity of her dis- 
position ; and let me paint the necessity of her obedience 
ever so strongly, I cannot overcharge its reality.” 

Having finished this sad chain of reflections upon his 
perilous condition, he entered his daughter’s apartment, 
with every nerve bent up to the support of the argument 
which he was about to sustain. Though a deceitful and 
ambitious man, he was not so devoid of natural affection 
but that he was shocked at the part he was about to act, 
in practising on the feelings of a dutiful and affectionate 
child ; but the recollections, that if he succeeded, his 
daughter would only be trepanned into an advantageous 
match, and that, if he failed, he himself was a lost man, 
were quite sufficient to drown all scruples. 

He found Miss Vere seated by the window of her 
dressing-room, her head reclining on her hand, and either 
sunk in slumber, or so deeply engaged in meditation, that 
she did not hear the noise he made at his entrance. He 
approached with his features composed to a deep expres- 
sion of sorrow and sympathy, and sitting down beside 
her, solicited her attention by quietly taking her hand, a 
motion which he did not fail to accompany with a deep 
sigh. 

“ My father !” said Isabella, with a sort of start, which 
expressed at least as much fear, as joy or affection. 

“ Yes, Isabella,” said Vere, “ your unhappy father, 
who comes now as a penitent to crave forgiveness of his 
daughter for an injury done to her in the excess of his 
affection, and then to take leave of her forever.” 

“ Sir ? Offence to me ? Take leave forever ? Whai 
does all this mean ?” said Miss Vere. 

“ Yes, Isabella, I am serious. But first let me ask 
you, have you no suspicion that I may have been privy 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


127 


‘o the strange chance which befell you yesterday raorn- 
ng r’ 

“ You, sir ?” answered Isabella, stammering, between 
a consciousness that he had guessed her thoughts justly, 
and the shame as well as fear which forbade her to ac- 
knowiedge a suspicion so degrading and so unnatural. 

“ Yes !” he continued, “ your hesitation confesses that 
you entertained such an opinion, and I have now the 
painful task of acknowledging that your suspicions have 
done me no injustice. But listen to my motives. In an 
evil hour I countenanced the addresses of Sir Frederick 
Langley, conceiving it impossible that you could have any 
permanent objections to a match where the advantages 
were, in most respects, on your side. In a worse, I en- 
tered with him into measures calculated to restore our 
banished monarch, and the independence of my country. 
He has taken advantage of my unguarded confidence, 
and now has my life at his disposal.” 

“ Your life, sir said Isabella, faintly. 

“ Yes, Isabella,” continued her father, “ the life of him 
who gave life to you. So soon as 1 foresaw the excesses in- 
to which his headlong passion (for, to do him justice, 1 be- 
lieve his unreasonable conduct arises from excess (^’attach- 
ment to you) was likely to hurry him, I endeavoured, by 
finding a plausible pretext for your absence for some weeks, 
to extricate myself from the dilemma in which I am placed. 
For this purpose I wished, in case your objections to the 
match continued insurmountable, to have sent you pri- 
vately for a few months to the convent of your maternal 
aunt at Paris. By a series of mistakes, you have been 
brought from the place of secrecy and security, which I 
had destined for your temporary abode. Fate has baffled 
rny last chance of escape, and I have only to give you my 
blessing, and send you from the castle with Mr. Ratcliffe, 
who now leaves it ; my own fate will soon be decided.” 

“ Good Heaven, sir ! can this be possible 9” exclaim- 
ed Isabella. “ O, why was I freed from the restraint in 
which you placed me 9 or why did you not impart your 
pleasure to me 9” 


128 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


“ Think an instant, Isabella. Would you have had me 
prejudice in your opinion the friend 1 was most desirous 
of serving, by communicating to you the injurious eager- 
ness with which he pursued his object “? Could 1 do so 
honourably, having promised to assist his suit ? — But it is 
all over. I and Mareschal have made up our minds to die 
like men ; it only remains to send you from hence under 
a safe escort.” 

“ Great powers ! and is there no remedy ?” said the 
terrified young woman. 

“ None, my child,” answered Vere, gently, “ unless 
one which you would not advise your father to adopt — to 
be the first to betray his friends.” 

“ O, no ! no !” she answered, abhorrently, yet hastily, 
as if to reject the temptation which the alternative present- 
ed to her. “But is there no other hope — through flight — 
through mediation — through supplication ? — I will bend 
my knee to Sir Frederick !” 

“ It would be a fruitless degradation ; he is determin- 
ed on his course, and 1 am equally resolved to stand the 
hazard of my fate. On one condition only he will turn 
aside from his purpose, and that condition my lips shall 
never utter to you.” 

“ Name it, 1 conjure you, my dear father !” exclaim- 
ed Isabella. “ What can he ask that we ought not to 
grant, to preven't the hideous catastrophe with which you 
are threatened i*” 

“ That, Isabella,” said Vere, solemnly, “ you shall 
never know, until your father’s head has rolled on the 
bloody scaffold ; then, indeed, you will learn there was 
one sacrifice by which he might have been saved.” 

“ And why not speak it now said Isabella ; “ do 
you fear I would flinch from the sacrifice of fortune for 
your preservation ? or would you bequeath me the bitter 
legacy of life-long remorse so oft as I shall think that you 
perished, while there remained one mode of preventing 
the dreadful misfortune that overhangs you?” 

“ Then, my child,” said Vere, “ since you press me 
to name what 1 would a thousand times rather leave in 
silence, I must inform you that he will accept for ransom 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


129 


nothing but your hand in marriage, and that conferred 
before midnight this very evening !” 

“ This evening, sir ?” said the young lady, struck with 
horror at the proposal — “ and to such a man ! — a man ? — 
a monster, who could wish to win the daughter by threat- 
ening the life of the father — it is impossible !” 

“ You say right, my child,” answered her father, “it 
is indeed impossible ; nor have I either the right or the 
wish to exact such a sacrifice — It is the course of nature 
that the old should die and be forgot, and the young should 
live and be happy.” 

“ My father die, and his child can save him ! — but no 
— -no — my dear father, pardon me, it is impossible ; you 
only wish to guide me to your wishes. I know your ob- 
ject is what you think my happiness, and this dreadful 
tale is only told to influence my conduct and subdue my 
scruples.” 

“ My daughter,” replied Ellieslaw, in a tone where 
offended authority seemed to struggle with parental affec- 
tion, “ my child suspects me of inventing a false tale to 
work upon her feelings ! Even this I must bear, and even 
from this unworthy suspicion I must descend to vindicate 
myself. You know the stainless honour of youi^ cousin 
Mareschal — mark what I shall write to him, and judge 
from his answer, if the danger in, which we stand is not 
real, and whether I have not used every means to avert it.” 

He sat down, wrote a few lines hastily, and handed 
them to Isabella, who, after repeated and painful efforts, 
cleared her eyes and head sufficient to discern their pur- 
port. 

“ Dear cousin,” said the billet, “ I find my daughter, 
as I expected, in despair at the untimely and premature 
urgency of Sir Frederick Langley. She cannot even 
comprehend the peril in which we stand, or how much 
we are in his power — Use your influence with him, for 
heaven’s sake, to modify proposals to the acceptance of 
which I cannot, and will not, urge my child against all 
her own feelings, as well as those of delicacy and pro- 
priety, and oblige your loving cousin, — R. V.” 

In the agitation of the moment, when her swimming 


130 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


eyes and dizzy brain could hardly comprehend the sense 
of what she looked upon, it is not surprising that Miss 
Vere should have omitted to remark, that this letter 
seemed to rest her scruples rather upon the form and time 
of the proposed union, than on a rooted dislike to the 
suitor proposed to her. Mr. Vere rang the bell, and 
gave the letter to a servant to be delivered, to Mr. Mare- 
schal, and, rising from his chair, continued to traverse the 
apartment in silence and in great agitation, until the an- 
swer was returned. He glanced it over, and wrung the 
hand of his daughter as he gave it to her. The tenor 
was as follows ; — 

“ My dear kinsman, I have already urged the knight 
on the point you mention, and I find him as fixed as 
Cheviot. I am truly sorry my fair cousin should be 
pressed to give up any of her maidenly rights. Sir 
Frederick consents, however, to leave the castle with me, 
the instant the ceremony is performed, and we will raise 
our followers and begin the fray. Thus there is great 
hope the bridegroom may be knocked on the head before 
he and the bride can meet again, so Bell has a fair chance 
to be lady Langley d tres bon marche. For the rest, I 
can only say, that if she can make up her mind to the 
alliance at all — it is no time for mere maiden ceremony — 
my pretty cousin must needs consent to marry in haste, or 
we shall all repent at leisure, or rather have very little leis- 
ure to repent, which is all at present from him who rests 
your affectionate kinsman, — R. M.” 

P. S. Tell Isabella that I would rather cut the knight’s 
throat after all, and end the dilemma that way, than see 
her constrained to marry him against her will.” 

When Isabella had read this letter, it dropped from her 
hand, and she would, at the same time, have fallen from 
her chair, had she not been supported by her father. 

“ My God, my child will die !” exclaimed Vere, the 
feelings of nature overcoming, even in his breast, the sen- 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


131 


timents of selfish policy ; “ look up, Isabella, — look up, 
my child — come what will, you shall not be the sacrifice 
— I will fall myself with the consciousness I leave you 
happy — My child may weep on my grave, but she shall 
not — not in this instance — reproach my memory.” He 
called a servant. — “ Go, bid Ratcliffe come hither di- 
rectly.” 

During this interval, Miss Vere became deadly pale, 
clenched her hands, j)ressing the palms strongly together, 
closed her eyes, and drew her lips with strong compres- 
sion, as if the severe constraint which she put upon her 
internal feelings extended even to her muscular organi- 
zation. Then raising her head, and drawing in her 
breath strongly ere she spoke, she said, with firmness,-— 
“ Father I consent to the marriage.” 

“ You shall not — you shall not, — my child — my dear 
child — you shall not embrace certain misery to free me 
from uncertain danger.” 

So exclaimed Ellieslaw ; and, strange and inconsistent 
beings that we are ! he expressed the real though mo- 
mentary feelings of his heart. 

‘‘ Father,” repeated Isabella, “ I will consent to this 
marriage.” 

“ No, my child, no — not now at least — we will hum 
ble ourselves to obtain delay from him ; and yet, Isabella, 
could you overcome a dislike which has no real founda 
lion, think, in other respects, what a match — wealth — 
rank — importance.” 

‘‘ Father !” reiterated Isabella, “ I have consented.’’ 

It seemed as if she had lost the power of saying any- 
thing else, or even of varying the phrase which, with 
such effort, she had compelled herself to utter. 

“ Heaven bless thee, my child ! — Heaven bless thee ! 
And it will bless thee with riches, with pleasure, with 
power.” 

Miss Vere faintly entreated to be left by herself for the 
rest of the evening. 

“ But will you not receive Sir Frederick T’ said her 
father anxiously. 


132 TAXES OF MY XANDLORD. 

“ I will meet him,” she replied, ‘‘ I will meet him— 
when I must, and where I must, but spare me now.” 

“ Be it so, my dearest ; you shall know no restraint 
that I can save you from. Do not think too hardly of 
Sir Frederick for this, — it is an excess of passion.” 

Isabella waved her hand impatiently. 

“ Forgive me, my child — I go — Heaven bless thee. 
At eleven — if you call me not before — at eleven I come 
to seek you.” 

When he left Isabella, she dropped upon her knees — 
“ Heaven aid me to support the resolution I have taken 
— Heaven only can — O, poor EarnsclifF! who shall com- 
fort him and with what contempt will he pronounce her 
name who listened to him to-day and gave herself to 
another at night. But let him despise me — better so 
than that he should know the truth — Let him despise me ; 
if it will but lessen his grief I should feel comfort in the 
loss of his esteem.” 

She wept bitterly ; attempting in vain from time to 
time to commence the prayer for which she had sunk on 
her knees, but unable to calm her spirits sufficiently for 
the exercise of devotion. As she remained in this agony 
of mind, the door of her apartment was slowly opened. 


CHAPTER XV. 


The darksome cave they enter, where they found 
The woeful man, low sitting on the ground, 

Musing full sadly in his sullen mind. 

Fa^j Queen. 

The intruder on Miss Vere’s sorrows was RatclilTe 
Ellieslaw had, in the agitation of his mind, forgotten to 
countermand the order he had given to call him thither, 
so that he opened the door with the words, “ You sent 
for me, Mr. Vere.” Then looking around — “ Miss Vere. 
alone ! on the ground ! and in tears I” 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


133 


‘‘ Leave me — leave me, Mr. Ralcliffe,” said the un- 
nappy young lady. 

“ I must not leave you,” said Ratcliffe ; “ I have 
jeen repeatedly requesting admittance to take my leave 
of you, and have been refused, until your father himself 
sent for me. Blame me not if I am bold and intrusive ; 

1 have a duty to discharge which makes me so.” 

“ I cannot listen to you — I cannot speak .to you, Mr. Rat- 
clifFe ; take my best wishes, and for God’s sake leave me.” 

“ Tell me only,” said Ratcliffe, “ is it true that this 
monstrous match is to go forward, and this very night ? I 
heard the servants proclaim it as I was on the great stair- 
case — I heard the directions given to clear out the chapel.” 

“ Spare me, Mr. Ratcliff^,” replied the luckless bride ; , 
“ and from the state in which you see me, judge of the 
cruelly of these questions.” 

“ Married } to Sir Frederick Langley } and this night? 
it must not — cannot — shall not be.” 

“ It must be, Mr. Ratcliffe, or my father is ruined.” 

Ah ! I understand,” answered Ratcliffe ; “ and you 
have sacrificed yourself to save him who — but let the virtue 
of the child atone for the faults of the father — it is no time 
to rake them up. — What can he done ? Time presses — I 
know but one remedy — with four-and-twenty hours I might 
find many — Miss Vere, you must implore the protection of 
the only human being who has it in his power to control the 
course of events which threatens to hurry you before it.” 

“ And what human being,” answered Miss Vere, “ has 
such power i”' 

“ Start not when I name him,” said Ratcliffe, coming 
near her, and speaking in a low but distinct voice. “ It 
is he who is called Elshender the Recluse of Muckle- 
stane-Moor.” 

“ You are mad, Mr. Ratcliffe, or you mean to insult my 
misery by an ill-timed jest !” 

“ I am as much in my senses, young lady,” answered 
her adviser, “ as you are ; and I am no idle jester, far 
less with misery, least of all with your misery. 1 swear 
to you that this being (who is other far than what he seems' 
12 VOL. I 


134 


TALES OF MT LANDLORD. 


actually possesses the means of redeeming you from this 
hateful union.” 

“ And of insuring my father’s safety ?” 

“Yes! even that,” said Ratcliffe, “ if you plead his 
cause with him — yet how to obtain admittance to the 
Recluse 1” 

“ Fear not that,” said Miss Vere, suddenly recollect- 
ing the incident of the rose ; “ I remember he desired 
me to call upon him for aid in my extremity, and gave me 
this flower as a token. Ere it faded away entirely, 1 
would need, he said, his assistance : is it possible his 
words can have been aught but the ravings of insanity 

“ Doubt it not — fear it not — but above all,” said Rat- 
. ciiffe, “ let us lose no time — Are you at liberty, and un- 
watched 

“ 1 believe so,” said Isabella ; “ but what would you 
have me to do 

“ Leave the castle instantly,” said Ratcliffe, “ and throw 
yourself at the feet of this extraordinary man, who, in cir- 
cumstances that seem to argue the extremity of the most 
contemptible poverty, possesses yet an almost absolute in- 
fluence over your fate. — Guests and servants are deep in 
their carouse — the leaders sitting in conclave on their trea- 
sonable schemes — my horse stands ready in the stable — I 
will saddle one for you, and meet you at the little garden- 
gate — O, let no doubt of my prudence or fidelity prevent 
your taking the only step in your power to escape the 
dreadful fate which must attend the wife of Sir Freder- 
ick Langley !” 

“ Mr. Ratcliffe,” said Miss Vere, “ you have always 
been esteemed a man of honour and probity, and a 
drowning wretch will always catch at the feeblest twig, — 

* will trust you — I will follow your advice — T will meet 
irou at the garden-gate.” 

She bolted the outer-door of her apartment as soon as 
Mr. Ratcliffe left her, and descended to the garden by a 
separate stair of communication, which opened to her 
dressing-room. On the way she felt inclined to retract 
the consent she had so hastily given to a plan so hopeless 
and extravagant. But as she passed in her descent a 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


135 


private door, which entered into the chapel from the back- 
stair, she heard the voice of the female-servants as they 
were employed in the task of cleaning it. 

“ Married ! and to sae bad a man — Ewhow, sirs ! 
onything rather than that.” 

“ They are right — they are right,” said Miss Vere, 
“ anything rather than that !” 

She hurried to the garden. Mr. RatclifFe was true to 
his appointment — the horses stood saddled at the garden- 
gate, and in a few minutes they were advancing rapidly 
towards the hut of the Solitary. 

While the ground was favourable, the speed of their 
journey was such as to prevent much communication ; 
but when a steep ascent compelled them to slacken their 
pace, a new cause of apprehension occurred to Miss 
Vere’s mind. 

“ Mr. RatclifFe,” she said, pulling up her horse’s bri- 
dle, “ let us prosecute no farther a journey, which noth- 
ing but the extreme agitation of my mind can vindicate 
my having undertaken — I am well aware that this man 
passes among the vulgar as being possessed of supernat- 
ural powers, and carrying on an intercourse with beings of 
another world ; but! would have you aware 1 am neith- 
er to be imposed on by such follies, nor, were I to believe 
in their existence, durst I, with my feelings of religion, 
apply to this being in my distress.” 

“ J should have thought, Miss Vere,” replied RatclifFe, 
“ my character and habits of thinking were so well 
known to you, that you might have held me exculpated 
from crediting in such absurdity.” 

“ But in what other mode,” said Isabella, “ can a 
being, so miserable himself in appearance, possess the 
power of assisting me i^” 

“ Miss Vere,” said RatclifFe, after a momentary pause, 
“ 1 am bound by a solemn oath of secrecy — You must, 
without farther explanation, be satisfied with my pledged 
assurance, that he does possess the power, if you can in- 
spire him with the will ; and that, I doubt not, you will 
be able to do.” 


186 


TAIiES OF MY LANDLORD. 


“ Mr. Ratcliffe,” said Miss Vere, “ you may yourself 
be mistaken ; you ask an unlimited degree of confidence 
from me.” 

“ Recollect, Miss Vere,” he replied, “ that when, in 
your humanity, you asked me to interfere with your fath- 
er in favour of Haswell and his ruined family — when you 
requested me to prevail on him to do a thing most abhor- 
rent to his nature — to forgive an injury and remit a pen- 
alty — I stipulated that you should ask me no questions 
concerning the sources of my influence — You found no 
reason to distrust me then, do not distrust me now.” 

‘‘ But the extraordinary mode of life of this man,” 
said Miss Vere ; “ his seclusion — his figure — the deep- 
ness of misanthropy which he is said to express in his 
language — Mr. RatclifTe, what can I think of him if he 
really possesses the powers you ascribe to him *?” 

“ This man, young lady, was bred a catholic, a sect 
which affords a thousand instances of those who have re- 
tired from power and affluence to voluntary privations 
more strict even than his.” 

“ But he avows no religious motive,” replied Miss Vere. 

“ No,” replied Ratcliffe ; “ disgust with the world 
has operated his retreat from it without assuming the veil 
of superstition. Thus far I may tell you — He was born 
to great wealth, which his parents designed should be- 
come greater by his union with a kinswoman, whom for 
that purpose they bred up in their own house. You have 
seen his figure ; judge what the young lady must have 
thought of the lot to which she was destined — Yet, ha- 
bituated to his appearance, she showed no reluctance, and 
the friends of of the person whom I speak of, doubt- 

ed not that the excess of his attachment, the various ac- 
quisitions of his mind, his many and amiable qualities, 
had overcome the natural horror which his destined bride 
must have entertained at an exterior so dreadfully inaus- 
picious.” 

“ And did they judge truly T’said Isabella. 

“ You shall hear. He, at least, was fully aware of his 
own deficiency ; the sense of it haunted him like a 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


137 


phantom. ‘ I am,’ was his own expression to me, — I 
mean to a man whom he trusted, — ‘I am, in spite of what 
you would say, a poor miserable outcast, fitter to have 
been smothered in the cradle, than to have been brought 
up to scdre the world in which I crawl.’ The person 
whom he addressed, in vain endeavoured to impress him 
with the indifference to external form, which is the nat- 
ural result of philosophy, or intreat him to recall the su- 
periority of mental talents to the more attractive attributes 
..hat are merely personal. ‘ I hear you,’ he would re- 
ply ; ‘ but you speak the voice of cold-blooded Stoicism, 
or, at least, of friendly partiality. But look at every 
book which we have read, those excepted of that abstract 
philosophy which feels no responsive voice in our natural 
feelings. Is not personal form, such as at least can be 
tolerated without horror and disgust, always represented 
as essential to our ideas of .a friend, far more a lover *? 
Is not such a mis-shapen monster as I am, excluded, by the 
very fiat of nature, from her fairest enjoyments 9 What 
but my wealth prevents all — perhaps even Letitia, or you, 
from shunning me as something foreign to your nature, 
and more odious, by bearing that distorted resemblance 
to humanity, which we observe in the animal tribes that 
are more hateful to man because they seem his carica- 
ture V ” 

“ You repeat the sentiments of a madman,” said Miss 
Vere. 

“ No,” replied her conductor, “ unless a morbid and 
excessive sensibility on such a subject can be termed in- 
sanity. Yet I will not deny that this governing feeling 
and apprehension carried the person who entertained it 
to lengths which indicated a deranged imagination. He 
appeared to tnink that it was necessary for him, by exu- 
berant, and not always well-chosen instances of liberality, 
and even profusion, to unite himself to the human race, 
from which he conceived himself naturally dissevered. 
The benefits which he bestowed, from a disposition nat- 
urally philanthropical in an uncommon degree, were ex- 
12 * VOL. 1. 


:38 


TALES or MY LANDLORD. 


aggerated by the influence of the goading reflection, that 
more was necessary from him than from others, — lavishing 
his treasures as if to bribe mankind to receive him into their 
class. It is scarcely necessary to say, that the bounty which 
flowed from a source so capricious was often abused, and 
his confidence frequently betrayed. These disappoint- 
ments, which occur to all, more or less, and most to such 
as confer benefits without just discrimination, his diseased 
fancy set down to the hatred and contempt excited by his 
personal deformity. — But I fatigue you. Miss Vere.'*” 

“ No, by no means ; I — 1 could not prevent my atten- 
tion from wandering an instant ; pray proceed.” 

‘ He became at length,” continued RatclifFe, “ the most 
ingenious self-tormentor of whom I have ever heard ; the 
scoff of the rabble, and the sneer of the yet more brutal 
vulgar of his own rank, was to him agony and breaking on 
the wheel. He regarded the laugh of the common people 
whom he passed on the street, and the suppressed titter, 
or yet more offensive terror of the young girls to whom he 
was introduced in company, as proofs oi the true sense 
which the world entertained of him, as a prodigy unfit to 
be received among them on the usual terms of society, 
and as vindicating the wisdom of his purpose in withdraw- 
ing himself from among them. On the faith and sincerity 
of two persons alone, he seemed to rely implicitly — on 
that of his betrothed bride, and of a friend eminently gift- 
ed in personal accomplishments, who seemed, and indeed 
probably was, sincerely attached to him. He ought to 
have been so at least, for he was literally loaded with ben- 
efits by him whom you are now about to see. The parents 
of the subject of my story died within a short space ox 
each other. Their death postponed the marriage, for 
which the day had been fixed. The lady did not seem 
greatly to mourn this delay, — perhaps that was not to have 
been expected ; but she intimated no change of intention, 
when, after a decent interval, a second day was named 
for their union. The friend of whom I spoke was then 
a constant resident at the hall. In an evil hour, at the 
earnest request and entreaty of this friend, they joined a 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


139 


general party, where men of different political opinions 
were mingled, and where they drank deep. A quarrel en- 
sued ; the friend of the Recluse drew his sword with oth- 
ers, and was thrown down and disarmed, hy a more power- 
ful antagonist. They fell in the struggle at the feet of the 
Recluse, who, maimed and truncated as his form appears, 
possesses, nevertheless, great strength, as well as violent 
passions. He caught up a sword, pierced the heart of his 
friend’s antagonist, was tried, and his life, with difficulty, re- 
deemed from justice at the expense of a year’s close impris- 
onment, the punishment of manslaughter. The incident 
affected him most deeply, the more that the deceased was 
a man of excellent character, and had sustained gross insult 
and injury ere he drew his sword . I think, from that moment, 
I observed — I beg pardon — The fits of morbid sensibility 
which had tormented this unfortunate gentleman, were 
rendered henceforth more acute by remorse, which he, 
of all men, was least capable of having incurred, or of 
sustaining, when it became his unhappy lot. His parox- 
ysms of agony could not be concealed from the lady to 
whom he was betrothed ; and it must be confessed they 
were of an alarming and fearful nature. He comforted 
himself, that at the expiry of his imprisonment, he could 
form with his wife and friend a society, encircled by which 
he might dispense with more extensive communication 
with the world. He was deceived ; before that term 
elapsed, his friend and his betrothed bride were man and 
wife. The effects of a shock so dreadful on an ardent 
temperament, a disposition already soured by bitter re- 
morse, and loosened by the indulgence of a gloomy im- 
agination from the rest of mankind, I cannot describe to 
you ; it was as if the last cable at which the vessel rode had 
suddenly parted, and left her abandoned to all the wild fury 
of the tempest. He was placed under medical restraint. 
As a temporary measure this might have been justifiable ; 
but his hard-hearted friend, who, in consequence of his 
marriage, was now his nearest ally, prolonged his confine- 
ment, in order to enjoy the management of his immense 
estates. There was one who owed his all to the sufferer 


140 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


an hunible friend, but grateful and faithful. By unceasing 
exertion, and repeated invocation of justice, he at length 
succeeded in obtaining his patron’s freedom, and rein- 
statement in the management of his own property, to which 
was soon added that of his intended bride, who, having died 
without male issue, her estate reverted to him, as heir of 
entail. But freedom and wealth were unable to restore 
the equipoise of his mind ; to the former his grief made 
him indifferent — the latter only served him as far as it af- 
forded him the means of indulging his strange and wayward 
fancy. He had renounced the Catholic religion, but perhaps 
some of its doctrines continued to influence a mind, over 
which remorse and misanthropy now assumed, in appear- 
ance, an unbounded authority. His life has since been that 
alternately of a pilgrim and a hermit, suffering the most se- 
vere privations, not indeed in ascetic devotion, but in abhor- 
rence of mankind. Yet no man’s words and actions have 
been at such a wide difference, nor has any hypocritical 
wretch ever been more ingenious in assigning good mo- 
tives for his vile actions, than this unfortunate in reconcil- 
ing to his abstract principles of misanthropy, a conduct 
which flows from his natural generosity and kindness of 
feeling.” 

“ Still, Mr. Ratcliffe — still you describe the inconsis- 
tencies of a madman.” 

“ By no means,” replied Ratcliffe. “ That the imagi- 
nation of this gentleman is disordered, I will not pretend 
to dispute ; I have already told you that it has sometimes 
broken out into paroxysms approaching to real mental 
alienation. But it is of his common state of mind that I 
speak ; it is irregular, but not deranged ; the shades are 
as gradual as those that divide the light of noon-day from 
midnight. The courtier who ruins bis fortune for the at- 
tainment of a title which can do him no good, or power 
of which he can make no suitable or creditable use ; the 
miser who hoards his useless wealth, and the prodigal who 
squanders it, are all marked with a certain shade of in- 
sanity. To criminals who are guilty of enormities, when 
the temptation to a sober mind bears no proportion to the 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


141 


horror of the act, or the probability of detection and pun- 
ishment, the same observation applies ; and every violent 
passion, as well as anger, may be termed a short mad- 
ness.” 

“ This may be all good philosophy, Mr. Ratcliffe,” an- 
swered Miss Vere ; “ but, excuse me, it by no means 
emboldens me to visit, at this late hour, a person whose ex- 
travagance of imagination you yourself can only palliate.” 

“ Rather, then,” said RatclifFe, “ receive my solemn 
assurances that you do not incur the slightest danger. 
But what I have been hitherto afraid to mention for fear 
of alarming you, is, that now when we are within sight of 
his retreat, for I can discover it through the twilight, I 
must go no farther with you ; you must proceed alone.” 

“ Alone — I dare not.” 

“ You must,” continued RatclifFe ; “ I will remain here 
and wait for you.” 

“ You will not then stir from this place,” said Miss 
Vere ; “ yet the distance is so great, you could not hear 
me were 1 to cry for assistance.” 

“ Fear nothing,” said her guide ; “ or observe, at least, 
the utmost caution in stifling every expression of timidity. 
Remember that his predominant and most harassing ap- 
prehension arises from a consciousness of the hideousness 
of his appearance. Your path lies straight beside yon 
half-fallen willow ; keep the left side of it ; the marsh 
lies on the right. Farewell for a time. Remember the 
evil you are threatened with, and let it overcome at once 
your fears and scruples.” 

“ Mr. RatclifFe,” said Isabella, “ farewell ; if you have 
deceived one so unfortunate as myself, you have forever 
forfeited the fair character for probity and honour to which 
I have trusted.” 

“ On my life — on my soul,” continued RatclifFe, rais- 
ing his voice as the distance between them increased, 
‘ you are safe — perfectly safe.” 


142 


T>LES OF MT LANDLORD. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


'Twas time and griefs 

That framed him thus : Time, with his fairer hand, 

Offering’ the fortunes of his former days, 

The former man may make him. — Bring us to him. 

And chance it as it may. . Old Play. 

The sounds of RalclifFe’s voice had died on Isabella’s 
ear ; but as she frequently looked back, it was some en- 
couragement to her to discern his form now darkening in 
the gloom. Ere, however, she went much farther, she 
lost the object in the increasing shade. The last glimmer 
of the twilight placed her before the hut of the Solitary. 
She twice extended her hand to the door, and twice she 
withdrew it ; and when she did at length make the effort, 
the knock did not equal in violence the throb of her own 
bosom. Her next effort was louder 5 her third was reit- 
erated, for the fear of not obtaining the protection from 
which Ratcliffe promised so much, began to overpower 
the terrors of his presence from whom she was to request 
it. At length, as she still received no answer, she repeat- 
edly called upon the Dwarf by his assumed name, and 
requested him to answer and open to her. 

“ What miserable being is reduced,” said the appalling 
voice of the Solitary, “ to seek refuge here 9 Go hence ; 
when the heath-fowl need shelter, they seek it not in the 
nest of the night-raven.” 

“ I come to you, father,” said Isabella, ‘‘ in my hour 
of adversity, even as you yourself commanded, when you 
promised your heart and your door should be opened to 
my distress ; but I fear” 

“ Ha !” said the Solitary, “ then thou art Isabella 
Vere 9 give me a token that thou art she.” 

“ I have brought you back the rose which you gave me ; 
it has not had time to fade ere the hard fate you foretold 
has come upon me !” 


THE BiACK DWARF. 


143 


“ And if thou hast thus redeemed thy pledge,” said the 
Dwarf, “ I will not forfeit mine. The heart and the door 
that are shut against every other earthly being, shall be 
open to thee and to thy sorrows.” 

She heard him move in his hut, and presently after- 
wards strike a light. One by one, bolt and bar were then 
withdrawn, the heart of Isabella throbbing higher a'; these 
obstacles to their meeting were successively removed. 
The door opened, and the Solitary stood before her, his 
uncouth form and features illuminated by the iron lamp 
which he held in his hand. 

“ Enter, daughter of affliction,” he said, — “ enter the 
house of misery.” 

She entered, and observed, with a precaution which 
increased her trepidation, that the Recluse’s first act, after 
setting the lamp upon the table, was to replace the nume- 
rous bolts which secured the door of his hut. She shrunk 
as she heard the noise which accompanied this ominous 
operation, yet remembered Ratcliffe’s caution, and endea- 
voured to suppress all appearance of apprehension. The 
light of the lamp was weak and uncertain ; but the Solitary, 
without taking immediate notice of Isabella, otherwise than 
by motioning her to sit down on a small settle beside the 
fire-place, made haste to kindle some dry furze which pre- 
sently cast a blaze through the cottage. Wooden shelves, 
which bore a few books, some bundles of dried herbs, and 
one or two wooden cups and platters, were on one side of 
the fire ; on the other, were placed some ordinary tools 
of field-labour, mingled with those used by mechanics. 
Where the bed should have been, there was a wooden 
frame, strewed with withered moss and rushes, the couch 
of the ascetic. The whole space of the cottage did not 
exceed ten feet by six within the walls ; and its only fur- 
niture, besides what we have mentioned, was a table and 
two stools formed of rough deals. 

Within these narrow precincts, Isabella now found her- 
self enclosed with a being whose history had nothing to 
reassure her, and the fearful conformation of whose hid 
eous countenance inspired an almost superstitious terror. 


144 


TAI.ES OF MY EANDEORD. 


He occupied the seat opposite to her, and dropping hishug® 
and shaggy eyebrows over his piercing black eyes, gazed 
at her in silence, as if agitated by a variety of contend- 
ing feelings. On the other side, sat Isabella, pale as death, 
her long hair uncurled by the evening damps, and falling 
over iier shoulders and breast, as the wet streamers droop 
from the mast when the storm has passed away, and left 
the vessel stranded on the beach. The Dwarf first broke 
the silence with the sudden, abrupt, and alarming question, 
— “ Woman, what evil fate has brought thee hither 

“ My father’s danger, and your own command,” she 
replied faintly, but firmly. 

“ And you hope for aid from me 

“ If you can bestow it,” she replied, still in the same 
.one of mild submission. 

“ And how should I possess that power *?” continued 
the Dwarf, with a bitter sneer ; “ Is mine the form of a 
redresser of wrongs ^ Is this the castle in which one pow- 
erful enough to be sued to by a fair suppliant is likely to 
hold his residence *'] I but mocked thee, girl, when I said 
I would relieve thee.” 

“ Then must I depart, and face my fate as I best may !” 

“ No !” said the Dwarf, rising and interposing between 
her and the door, and motioning to her sternly to resume 
her seat — ‘‘ No ! you leave me not in this way ; we must 
have farther conference. Why should one being desire 
aid of another Why should not each be sufficient to 
itself Look round you — I, the most despised and most 
decrepit on Nature’s common, have required sympathy 
and help from no one. These stones are of my own pil 
ing ; these utensils I framed with my own hands ; anc 

with this” and he laid his hand with a fierce smife on 

the long dagger which he always wore beneath his gar- 
ment, and unsheathed it so far that the blade glimmered 
clear in the fire-light — “ With this,” he pursued, as he 
thrust the weapon back into the scabbard, “ I can, if 
necessary, defend the vital spark enclosed in this pool 
trunk, against the fairest and strongest that shall threaten 
me with injury.” 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


J45 


It was with difficulty, Isabella refrained from screaming 
out aloud ; but she did refrain. 

“ This,” continued the Recluse, “ is the life of nature, 
solitary, self-sufficing, and independent. The wolf calls 
not the wolf to aid him in forming his den ; and the vul- 
ture invites not another to assist her in striking down her 
prey.” 

“ And when they are unable to procure themselves 
support,” said Isabella, judiciously thinking that he would 
be most accessible to argument, couched in his own met- 
aphorical style, “ what then, is to befall ibern 9” 

“ Let them starve, die, and be forgotten ; it is the com- 
mon lot of humanity.” 

“ It is the lot of the wild tribes of nature,” said Isa- 
bella, “ but chiefly of those who are destined to support 
themselves by rapine, which brooks no partner ; but it is 
not the law of nature in general ; even the lower orders 
have confederacies for mutual defence. But mankind — 
the race would perish did they cease to aid each other. — 
From the time that the mother binds the child’s head, till 
the moment that some kind assistant wipes the death- 
damp from the brow of the dying, we cannot exist with- 
out mutual help. All, therefore, that need aid, have right 
to ask it of their fellow-mortals ; no one who has the pow- 
er of granting can refuse it without guilt.” 

“ And in this simple hope, poor maiden,” said the Sol- 
itary, “ thou hast come into the desert, to seek one whose 
wish it were that the league thou hast spoken of were 
broken forever, and that in very truth, the whole race 
should perish 9 Wert thou not frightened 9” 

“ Misery,” said Isabella, firmly, “ is superior to fear.” 

“ Hast thou not heard it said in thy mortal world, that 
I have leagued myself with other powers, deformed to 
the eye and malevolent to the human race as myself 9 

Hast thou not heard this And dost thou seek my cell 

at midnight 9” 

“ The Being I worship supports me against such idle 
fears,” said Isabella ; but the increasing agitation of her 
13 VOL. I. 


146 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


bosom belied the affected courage which her words ex- 
pressed. 

“ Ho ! ho !” said the Dwarf, “ thou vauntest thyself 
a pliilosopher ? Yet should'st thou not have thought of the 
danger of entrusting thyself, young and beautiful, in the 
power of one so spited against humanity, as to place his 
chief pleasure in defacing, destroying, and degrading her 
fairest works 

Isabella much alarmed, continued to answer, with firm- 
ness, “ Whatever injuries you may have sustained in the 
world, you are incapable of revenging them on one who 
never wronged you, nor, wilfully, any other.’’ 

“ Ay, hill maiden,” he continued, his dark eyes flash- 
ing with an expression of malignity which communicated 
itself to his wild and distorted features, “ revenge is the 
hungry wolf, which asks only to tear flesh and lap blood. 
Think you the lamb’s plea of innocence would be listen- 
ed to by him ?” 

“ Man !” said Isabella, rising and expressing herself 
with much dignity, “ I fear not the horrible ideas with 
which you would impress me. I cast them from me with 
disdain. Be you mortal or fiend, you would not offer 
injury to one who sought you as a suppliant in her utmost 
need. You would not — you durst not.” 

“ Thou say’st truly, maiden,” rejoined the Solitary ; 
“ I dare not — I would not. Begone to thy dwelling. 
Fear nothing with which they threaten thee. Thou hast 
asked my protection — thou shalt find it effectual.” 

“ But, father, this very night I have consented to wed 
the man that I abhor, or I must put the seal to my father’s 
ruin.” 

“ This night 9 — at what hour 9” 

“ Ere midnight.” 

“ And twilight,” said the Dwarf, “ has already passed 
away. But fear nothing, there is ample time to protect 
thee.” 

“ And my fattier continued Isabella, in a suppliant 
tone. 


THE IJLACK DWAIIF. 


147 


“ Thy father,” replied the Dwarf, “ has been, and is, 
my most bitter enemy. But fear not ; thy virtue shall 
save him. And now, begone ; were I to keep thee long- 
er by me, I might again fall into the stupid dreams con- 
cerning human worth from which I have been so fearfully 
awakened. But fear nothing, at the very foot of the altar, 
I will redeem thee. Adieu, time presses, and I must act !” 

He led her to the door of the hut, which he opened for 
her departure. She remounted her horse which had been 
feeding in the outer inclosure, and pressed him forward 
by the light of the moon, which was now rising, to the 
spot where she had left RatclifFe. 

“ Have you succeeded.^” was his first eager question. 

“ I have obtained promises from him to whom you sent 
me ; but how can he possibly accomplish them F” 

“ Thank God !” said RatclifFe ; “ doubt not his power 
to fulfil his promise.” 

At this moment a shrill whistle was heard to resound 
along the heath. 

“ Hark !” said RatclifFe, “ he calls me — Miss Vere 
return home, and leave unbolted the postern-door of the 
garden ; to that which opens on the back-stairs I have a 
private key.” 

A second whistle was heard, yet more shrill and pro- 
longed than the first. 

“ I come, I come,” said RatclifFe ; and, setting spurs 
to his horse, rode over the heath in the direction of the 
Fiecluse’s hut. Miss Vere returned to the castle, the 
mettle of the animal on which she rode, and her own anx- 
iety of mind, combining to accelerate her journey. 

She obeyed RatclifFe’s directions, though without well 
apprehending their purpose, and leaving her horse at large 
in a paddock near the garden, hurried to her own apart- 
ment, which she reached without observation. She now 
unbolted her door, and rang her bell for lights. Her 
hither appeared along with the servant who answered her 
summons. 

had been twice,” he said, “ listening at her door 
during the two hours that had elapsed since he left her, 


148 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


and, not hearing her speak, had become apprehensive 
that she was taken ill.” 

“ And now, my dear father,” she said, “ permit me to 
claim the promise you so kindly gave ; let the last mo- 
ments of freedom which I am to enjoy be mine without 
interruption ; and protract to the last moment the respite 
which is allowed me.” 

“ I will,” said her father ; “ nor shall you be again in- 
terrupted. But this disordered dress — this dishevelled 
hair — do not let me find you thus when I call on you 
again ; the sacrifice to be beneficial must be voluntary.” 

“ Must it be so *?” she replied, “ then fear not, my 
father ! the victim shall be adorned.” 


CHAPTER XVIL 

This looks not like a nuptial. 

Much Ado about Nothing. 

The chapel in the castle of Ellieslaw, destined to be 
the scene of this ill-omened union, was a building of much 
older date than the castle itself, though that claimed con- 
siderable antiquity. Before the wars between England 
and Scotland had become so common and of such long 
duration, that the buildings along both sides of the Bor- 
der were chiefly dedicated to warlike purposes, there had 
Deen a small settlement of monks at Ellieslaw, a depen 
dency, it is believed by antiquaries, on the rich 
Abbey of Jedburgh. Their possessions had long passed 
away under the changes introduced by war and mutual 
ravage. A feudal castle had arisen on the ruin of their 
cells, and their chapel was included in its precincts. 

The edifice, in its round arches and massive pillars, 
the simplicity of which referred their date to what has 
Deen called the Saxon architecture, presented at all times 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


149 


a dark and sombre appearance, and had been frequently 
used as the cemetery of the family of the feudal lords, 
as well as formerly of the monastic brethren. But it 
looked doubly gloomy by the effect of the few and smoky 
torches which were used to enlighten it on the present 
occasion, and which, spreading a glare of yellow light in 
their immediate vicinity, were surrounded beyond by a 
red and purple halo reflected from their own smoke, and 
beyond that again by a zone of darkness which magnified 
the extent of the chapel, while it rendered it impossible 
for the eye to ascertain its limits. Some injudicious or- 
naments, adopted in haste for the occasion, rather added 
to the dreariness of the scene. Old fragments of tapes- 
try, torn from the walls of other apartments, had been 
hastily and partially disposed around those of the chapel, 
and mingled inconsistently with scutcheons and funeral 
emblems of the dead, which they elsewhere exhibited. 
On each side of the stone altar was a monument, the ap- 
pearance of which formed an equally strange contrast. 
On the one was the hgure, in stone, of some grim hermit, 
or monk, who had died in the odour of sanctity ; he was 
represented as recumbent, in his cowl and scapulaire, with 
his face turned upward as in the act of devotion, and his 
hands folded, from which his string of beads was depend- 
ent. On the other side was a tomb, in the Italian taste^ 
composed of the most beautiful statuary marble, and ac- 
counted a model of modern art. It was erected to the 
memory of Isabella’s mother, the late Mrs. Vere of El- 
lieslaw, who was represented as in a dying posture, while 
a weeping cherub, with eyes averted, seemed in the act 
of extinguishing a dying lamp as emblematic of her speedy 
dissolution. It was, indeed, a master-piece of art, but 
misplaced in the rude vault to which it had been consign- 
ed. Many were surprised, and even scandalized, that 
Ellieslaw, not remarkable for attention to his lady while 
alive, should erect after her death such a costly mauso- 
leum in affected sorrow ; others cleared him from the 
imputation of hypocrisy, and averred that the monument 

13’^ VOL. I 


J50 


TATARS OF ]MY J.ANDLORD. 


bad been constructed under the direction and at the sole 
expense of Mr. Ratcliffe. 

Before these monuments the wedding guests were as- 
sembled. They were few in number ; for many had left 
the castle to prepare for the ensuing political explosion, 
and Ellieslaw was, in the circumstances of the case, far 
from being desirous to extend invitations farther than to 
those near relations whose presence the custom of the 
country rendered indispensable. Next to the altar stood 
Sir Frederick Langley, dark, moody, and thoughtful, even 
beyond his wont, and near him, Mareschal, who was to 
play the part of bridesman, as it was called. The thought- 
less humour of this young gentleman, on which he never 
deigned to place the least restraint, added to the cloud 
which overhung the brow of the bridegroom. 

“ The bride is not yet come out of her chamber,” he 
whispered to Sir Frederick ; “ I trust that we must not 
have recourse to the violent expedients of the Romans 
which I read of at college. It would be hard upon my 
pretty cousin to be run away with twice in two days, though 
I know none better worth such a violent compliment.” 

Sir Frederick attempted to turn a deaf ear to this dis- 
course, humming a tune and looking another way, but 
Mareschal proceeded in the same wild manner. 

“ This delay is hard upon Dr. Hobbler, who was dis- 
turbed to accelerate preparations for this joyful event, 
when he had successfully extracted the cork of his third 
bottle. I hope you will keep him free of the censure of 
his superiors, for I take it this is beyond canonical hours. 
But here come Ellieslaw and my pretty cousin — prettier 
than ever, I think, were it not she seems so faint and so 
deadly pale — Hark ye, sir knight, if she says not yes with 
right good-will, it shall be no wedding for all that has 
come and gone yet.” 

“ No wedding, sir T’ returned Sir Frederick, in a loud 
whisper, the tone of which indicated that his angry feel- 
mgs were suppressed with difficulty. 

“ No — no marriage,” replied Mareschal, “ there’s mv 
hand and glove on’t.” 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


151 


Sir Frederick Langley took his hand, and as he wrung 
t hard, said in a lower whisper, “ Mareschal, you shai 
answer this,” and then flung his hand from him. 

“ That I will readily do,” said Mareschal, “ for never 
word escaped my lips that my hand was not ready to 
guarantee — So, speak up, my pretty cousin, and tell me 
if it be your free will and unbiassed resolution to accept 
of this gallant knight for your lord and husband ; for if 
you have the tenth part of a scruple upon the subject, fall 
back, fall edge, he shall not have you.” 

“ Are you mad, Mr. Mareschal 9” said Ellieslaw, who, 
having been this young man’s guardian during his minor- 
ity, often employed a tone of authority to him. “ Do 
you suppose 1 w^ould drag my daughter to the foot of the 
altar, were it not her own choice 

“ Tut, Ellieslaw,” retorted the young gentleman, 
“ never tell me of the contrary ; her eyes are full of tears, 
and her cheeks are whiter than her white dress. I must 
insist, in the name of common humanity, that the cere- 
mony be adjourned till to-morrow.” 

“ She shall tell you herself, thou incorrigible intermed- 
dler in what concerns thee not, that it is her wish the cer- 
emony should go on. — Is it not, Isabella, my dear 9” 

“ It is,” said Isabella, half fainting — “ since there is no 
help either in God or man.” 

The first word alone was distinctly audible. JVferes- 
chal shrugged up his shoulders and stepped back. El- 
lieslaw led, or rather supported, his daughter to the altar. 
Sir Frederick moved forward and placed himself by her 
side. The clergyman opened his prayer-book, and look- 
ed to Mr. Vere for the signal to commence the service 
“ Proceed,” said the latter. 

But a voice, as if issuing from the tomb of his de- 
ceased wife, called, in such loud and harsh accents, a* 
awakened every echo in the vaulted chapel, “ Forbear !’ 

All were mute and motionless, till a distant rustje, and 
the clash of swords, or something resembling it, was heard 
from the remote apartments. It ceased almost mstanllv 


162 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


“ What new device is this 9” said Sir Frederick, fierce- 
ly, eyeing Ellieslaw and JMareschal with a glance of ntiri- 
lignant suspicion. 

“ It can be but the frolic of some intemperate guest,” 
said Ellieslaw, though greatly confounded ; “ we must 
make large allowances for the excess of this evening’s 
festivity. Proceed with the service.” 

Before the clergyman could obey, the same prohibition 
which they had before heard, was repeated from the same 
spot. The female attendants screamed, and fled from 
the chapel ; the gentlemen laid their hands on their 
swords. Ere the first moment of surprise had passed by, 
the Dwarf stepped from behind the monument, and placed 
himself full in front of Mr. Vere. The effect of so strange 
and hideous an apparition, in such a place and in such cir- 
cumstances, appalled all present, but seemed to annihilate 
the Laird of Ellieslaw, who, dropping his daughter’s arm, 
staggered against the nearest pillar, and clasping it with his 
hands as if for support, laid his brow against the column. 

“ Who is this fellow said Sir Frederick ; “ and 
what does he mean by this intrusion 9” 

“ It is one who comes to tell you,” said the Dwarf, 
with the peculiar acrimony which usually marked his man- 
ner, “ that, in marrying that young lady, you wed neither 
the heiress of Ellieslaw, nor of Mauley-Hall, nor of Pol- 
vertOB, nor of one furrow of land, unless she marries with 
MY consent ; and to thee that consent shall never be given. 
Down — down on thy knees, and thank Heaven that thon 
art prevented from wedding qualities with which thou 
hast no concern, portionless truth, virtue and innocence. — 
And thou, base ingrate,” he continued, addressing him- 
self to Ellieslaw, “ what is thy wretched subterfuge now F 
Thou who wouldst sell thy daughter to relieve thee from 
danger, as in famine thou wouldst have slain and devour- 
ed her to preserve thy own vile life ! — Ay, hide thy face 
with thy hands ; well mayst thou blush to look on him 
whose Dody thou didst consign to chains, his hand to guilt, 
and his soul to misery. Saved once more by the virtue 
of her who calls thee father, go hence, and may the par- 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


153 


don and benefits I confer on thee prove literal coals of fire, 
till thy brain is seared and scorched like mine.’’ 

Ellieslavv left the chapel with a gesture of mute despair. 

“ Follow him, Hubert RatclifFe,” said the Dwarf, “ and 
inform him of his destiny. He will rejoice — for to breathe 
air and to handle gold is to him happiness.” 

“ I understand nothing of all this,” said Sir Frederick 
Langley ; “ but we are here a body of gentlemen in arms 
and authority for King James ; and whether you really, 
sir, be that Sir Edward Mauley, who has been so long 
supposed dead in confinement, or whether you be an im- 
postor assuming his name and title, we will use the free- 
dom of detaining you till your appearance here, at this 
moment, is better accounted for ; we will have no spies 
among us — Seize on him, my friends.” 

But the domestics shrunk back in doubt and alarm. Sir 
Frederick himself stepped forward towards the Recluse, 
as if to lay hands on his person, when his progress was sud- 
denly stopped by the glittering point of a partizan, which the 
sturdy hand of Hobbie Elliot presented against his bosom. 

“ I’ll gar daylight shine through ye, if ye offer to steer 
him !” said the stout Borderer ; “ stand back, or I’ll strike 
ye through ! Naebody shall lay a finger on Elshie ; he’s 
a canny neighbourly man, aye ready to make a friend 
help ; and, though ye may think him a lamiter, yet, grip- 
pie for grippie, friend, I’ll wad a wether he’ll make the 
bluid spin frae under your nails. He’s a teugh carle, 
Elshie ! he grips like a smith’s vice.” 

“ What has brought you here, Elliot said Mares- 
chal who called on you for interference 9” 

“ Troth, Mareschal- Wells,” answered Hobbie, “ I am 
just come here, wd’ twenty or thretty mair o’ us, in my 
ain name and the King’s — or Queen’s, ca’ they her ? and 
canny Elshie’s into the bargain, to keep the peace, and 
pay back some ill usage Ellieslaw has gien me. A bon- 
nie breakfast the loons gae me the ither morning, and him 
at the bottom on’t ; and trow ye I wasna ready to sup- 
per him up 9 — Ye needna lay your hahds on your swords, 
gentlemen, the house is ours wi’ little din ; for the doors 


154 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


were open, and there had been ower muckle punch ainang 
your folk ; we took their swords and pistols as easily as 
ye wad shell pea-cods.” 

Mareschal rushed out, and immediately re-entered the 
chapel. 

“ By heaven ! it is true. Sir Frederick ; the house is 
filled with armed men, and our drunken beasts are all 
disarmed. — Draw, and let us fight our way.” 

“ Binna rash — binna rash,” exclaimed Hobble ; “ hear 
me a bit, hear me a bit. We mean ye nae harm ; but, 
as ye are in arms for King James, as ye ca’ him, an the 
prelates, we thought it right to keep up the auld neighbour 
war, and stand up for the t’other ane and the kirk ; but 
we’ll no hurt a hair o’ your heads, if ye like to gang hame 
quietly. And it will be your best way, for there’s sur(3 
news come frae Loudon, that him they ca’ Bang, or 
Byng, or what is’t, has bang’d the French ships and the 
new king aff the coast however ; sae, ye had best bide 
content wi’ auld Nanse for want of a better Queen.” 

RatclifFe, who at this moment entered, confirmed these 
accounts, so unfavourable to the Jacobite interest. Sir 
Frederick, almost instantly, and without taking leave of 
any one, left the castle, with such of his attendants as 
were able to follow him. 

“ And what will you do, Mr. Mareschal 9” said Rat- 
clhfe. 

“ Why, faith,” answered he, smiling, “ I hardly know ; 
my spirit is too great, and my fortune too small, for me 
to follow the example of the doughty bridegroom. It is 
not in my nature, and it is hardly worth my while.” 

“ Well, then, disperse your men, and remain quiet, and 
this will be overlooked, as there has been no overt act.” 

“ Hout, ay,” said Elliot, “just letbyganes be byganes, 
and a’ friends again ; deil ane I bear malice at but 
Westburnflat, and I hae gien him baith a het skin and a 
«auld ane. I hadna changed three blows of the broad- 
sword wi’ him before he lap the window into the castle- 
moat, and swatlered through it like a wild-duck. He’s a 
clever fallow, indeed ! maun kilt awa wi’ ae bonnie lass 


TIIK BLACK DWARF. 


155 


m the morning, and another at night, less wadna serve 
him ! but if he disna kilt himself out o’ the country, 
I’se kilt him wi’ a tow, for the Castleton meeting’s clean 
blawn ower ; his friends will no countenance him.” 

During the general confusion, Isabella had thrown her- 
self at the feet of her kinsman. Sir Edward Mauley, for 
so we must now call the Solitary, to express at once her 
gratitude, and to beseech forgiveness for her father. The 
eyes of all began to be fixed 6n them, as soon as their 
own agitation and the bustle of the attendants had some- 
what abated. MissVere kneeled beside the tomb of her 
mother, to whose statue her features exhibited a marked 
resemblance. She held the hand of the Dwarf, which 
she kissed repeatedly and bathed with tears. He stood 
fixed and motionless, excepting that his eyes glanced al- 
ternately on the marble figure, and the living suppliant. 
At length, the large drops, which gathered on his eye- 
lashes, compelled him to draw his hand across them. 

“ I thought,” he said, “ that tears and I had done ; but 
we shed them at our birth, and their spring dries not un- 
til we are in our graves. But no melting of the heart 
shall dissolve my resolution. I part here, at once, and 
forever, with all of which the memory,” (looking to the 
tomb,) “or the presence,” he pressed Isabella’s hand, “ is 
dear to me. — Speak not to me ! attempt not to thwart 
my determination ! it will avail nothing ; you will hear of 
and see this lump of deformity no more. To you I shall 
be dead ere I am actually in my grave, and you will think 
of me as of a friend disencumbered from the toils and 
crimes of existence.” 

He kissed Isabella on the forehead, impressed another 
kiss on the brow of the statue by which she knelt, and 
left the chapel followed by Ratcliffe. Isabella, almost 
exhausted by the emotions of the day, was carried to 
her apartment by her women. Most of the other guests 
dispersed, after having separately endeavoured to impress 
on ^11 who would listen to them their disapprobation ol 
the plots formed against the government, or their regret 
for having engaged in them. Hobbie Elliot assumed the 


156 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


command of the castle for the night, and mounted a reg- 
ular guard. He’ boasted not a little of the alacrity with 
which his friends and he had obeyed a hasty summons 
received from Elshie, through the faithful RatclifFe. 
And it was a lucky chance, he said, that on that very 
day they had got notice that Westburnflat did not intend 
to keep his tryste at Castleton, but to hold them at defi- 
ance ; so that a considerable party had assembled at the 
Heugh-foot with the intention of paying a visit to the 
robber’s tower on the ensuing morning, and their course 
was easily directed to Ellieslaw Castle. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

Last scene of all, 

To close this strange eventful history. 

As You Lxkt it. 

On the next morning, Mr. RatclifFe presented Miss 
Vere with a letter from her father, of which the following 
is the tenor : — 

“ My dearest Child, 

“ The malice of a persecuting government will com- 
pel me, for my own safety, to retreat abroad, and to re- 
main for some time in foreign parts. I do not ask you to 
accompany, or follow me ; you will attend to my interes"" 
and your own more effectually by remaining where you are 
It is unnecessary to enter into a minute detail concerning 
the causes of the strange events which yesterday took 
place. I think I have reason to complain of the usage I 
have received from Sir Edward Mauley, who is your 
nearest kinsman by the mother’s side ; but, as he has 
declared you his heir, and is to put you in immediate 
possession of a large part of his fortune, I account it a 


THE BLACK DWATIF. 


I S’? 


full atonement. T am aware he has never forgiven the 
preference which your mother gave to my addresses, in- 
stead of complying with the terms of a sort of family 
compact which absurdly and tyrannically destined her to 
wed her deformed relative. The shock was even suffi- 
cient to unsettle his wits, (which, indeed, were never 
over-well arranged ;) and I had, as the husband of his 
nearest kinswoman and heir, the delicate task of taking 
care of his person and property, until he was reinstated 
in the management of the latter by those who, no doubt, 
thought they were doing him justice ; although, if some 
parts of his subsequent conduct be examined, it will- ap- 
pear that he ought, for his own sake, to have been left 
under the influence of a mild and salutary restraint. 

“ In one particular, however, he showed a sense of the 
ties of blood, as well as of his own frailty ; for while he 
sequestered himself closely from the world, under various 
names and disguises, and insisted on spreading a report 
of his own death, (in which to gratify him I willingly ac- 
quiesced,) he left at my disposal the rents of a great pro- 
portion of his estates, and especially all those, which, 
having belonged to your mother, reverted to him as a male 
fief. In this he may have thought that he was acting 
with extreme generosity, while, in the opinion of all im- 
partial men, he will only be considered as having fulfilled 
a natural obligation, seeing that, in justice, if not in strict 
law, you must be considered as the heir of your mother, 
and I as your legal administrator. Instead, therefore, of 
considering myself as loaded with obligations to Sir Ed- 
ward on this account, I think I had reason to complain 
that these remittances were only doled out to me at the 
pleasure of Mr. RatclifFe, who, moreover, exacted from 
me mortgages over my paternal estate of Ellieslaw for 
any sums which I required as an extra advance ; and 
thus. may be said to have insinuated himself into the ab- 
solute management and control of my property. Or, it 
all this seeming friendship was employed by Sir Edward 
for the purpose of obtaining a complete command of my 
14 VOL 1. 


58 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


affairs, and acquiring the power of ruining me at his 
pleasure, I feel myself, I must repeat, still less bound by 
the alleged obligation. 

“ About the autumn of last year, as I understand, either 
his own crazed imagination, or the accomplishment of 
some such scheme as I have hinted, brought him down 
to this country. His alleged motive, it seems, was a de- 
sire of seeing a monument which he had directed to be 
raised in the chapel over the tomb of your mother. jMr. 
Ratcliffe, who at this time had done me the honour to 
make my house his own, had the complaisance to intro- 
duce him secretly into the chapel. The consequence, 
as he informs me, was a frenzy of several hours, during 
which he fled into the neighbouring moors, in one of the 
wildest spots of which he chose, when he was somewhat 
recovered, to fix his mansion, and set up for a sort of 
country empiric, a character, which, even in his best days 
he was fond of assuming. It is remarkable, that, instead 
of informing me of these circumstances, that I might 
have had the relative of my late wife taken such care of 
as his calamitous condition required, Mr. Ratcliffe seems 
to have had such culpable indulgence for his irregular 
plans as to promise and even swear secrecy concerning 
them. He visited Sir Edward often, and assisted in the 
fantastic task he had taken upon him of constructing a 
hermitage. Nothing they appear to have dreaded more 
than a discovery of their intercourse. 

“ The ground was open in every direction around, and a 
small subterranean cave, probably sepulchral, which their 
researches had detected near the great granite pillar, serv- 
ed to conceal Ratcliffe when any one approached his 
master. 1 think you will be of opinion, my love, that this 
secrecy must have had some strong motive. It is also 
remarkable, that while I thought my unhappy friend was 
residing among the monks of La Trappe, he should have 
been actually living, for many months, in this bizarre dis- 
guise, within five miles of my house and obtaining regu- 
lar information of my most private movements, either by 
Ratcliffe, or through Westburnflat or others, whom he had 


THB BliACK DWAHr. 


159 


Jie means to bribe to any extent. He makes it a crime 
against me that 1 endeavoured to establish your marriage 
with Sir Frederick. . I acted for the best ; but if Sir Ed- 
ward Mauley thought otherwise, why did he not step man- 
fully forward, express his own purpose of becoming a party 
to the settlements, and take that interest which he is en- 
titled to claim in you as heir to his great property ? 

“ Even now, though your rash and eccentric relation is 
somewhat tardy in announcing his purpose, 1 am far from 
opposing my authority against his wishes, although the per- 
son he desires you to regard as your future husband be 
young EarnsclifF, the very last whom 1 should have thought 
likely to be acceptable to him, considering a certain fatal 
event. But I give my free and hearty consent, provid- 
ing the settlements are drawn in such an irrevocable 
form as may secure my child from suffering by that 
Slate of dependence, and that sudden and causeless revo- 
cation of allowances, of which I have so much reason to 
complain. Of Sir Frederick Langley, 1 augur, you will 
hear no more. He is not likely to claim the hand of a 
dowerless maiden. I therefore commit you, my dear 
Isabella, to the wisdom of Providence and to your own 
prudence, begging you to lose no time in securing those 
advantages, which the fickleness of your kinsman has 
withdrawn from me to shower upon you. 

“ Mr. Ratcliffe mentioned Sir Edward’s intention to 
settle a considerable sum upon me yearly, for my main- 
tenance in foreign parts ; but this my heart is too proud 
to accept from him. J told him J had a dear child, who, 
while in affluence herself, would never suffer me to be in 
poverty. I thought it right to intimate this to him pretty 
roundly, that whatever increase be settled upon you, it 
may be calculated so as to cover this necessary and nat- 
ural encumbrance. I shall willingly settle upon you the 
castle and manor of Ellieslaw, to show my parental affec- 
tion and disinterested zeal for promoting your settlement 
in life. The annual interest of debts charged on the 
estate somewhat exceeds the income, even after a rea- 
sonable rent has been put upon the mansion and mains. 
But as all the debts are in the person of Mr. Ratcliffe. 


160 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


as your kinsman’s trustee, he will not be a troublesome 
creditor. And here I must make you aware, that though 
I have to complain of Mr. RatclifFe’s. conduct to me per- 
sonally, I, nevertheless, believe him a just and upright 
man, with whom you may safely consult on your affairs, 
not to mention that to cherish his good opinion will be 
the best way to retain that of your kinsman. Remember 
me to Marchie — 1 hope he will not be troubled on ac- 
count of late matters. I will write more fully from the 
Continent. Meanwhile, 1 rest your loving father, 

Richard Vere.’ 

The above letter throws the only additional light which 
vve have been able to procure upon the earlier part of 
our story. It was Robbie’s opinion, and may be that of 
most of our readers, that the Recluse of Mucklestane- 
Moor had but a kind of a gloaming, or twilight under- 
standing ; and that he had neither very clear views as to 
what he himself wanted, nor was apt to pursue his ends 
Dy the clearest and most direct means : so that to seek 
the clew of his conduct, was likened, by Robbie, to look- 
ing for a straight path through a common, over which are a 
nundred devious tracts, but not one distinct line of road. 

When Isabella had perused the letter, her first inquiry was 
after her father. Re had left the. castle, she was informed, 
early in the morning, after a long interview with Mr. Rat- 
cliffe, and was already far on his way to the next port, 
where he might expect to find shipping for the Continent. 

“ Where was Sir Edward Mauley 

No one had seen the Dwarf since the eventful scene 
of the preceding evening. 

“ Odd, if onything has befa’en puir Elshie,” said 
Robbie Elliot, “ I wad rather I were harried ower again.” 

Re immediately rode to his dwelling, and the remain- 
ing she-goat came bleating to meet him, for her milking- 
time was long past. The Solitary was no where to be 
seen ; his door, contrary to wont, was open, his fire ex- 
tinguished, and the whole .hut was left in the state which 
it exhibited on Isabella’s visit to him. It was pretty clear 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


161 


that the means of conveyance which had brought the 
Dwarf to Ellieslaw on the preceding evening, had re- 
moved him from it to some other place of abode. Hob- 
bie returned disconsolate to the castle. 

“ I am doubting we hae lost canny Elshie for ffude 
an’ a’.” 

“ You have, indeed,” said RatclifFe, producing a pa- 
per, which he put into Robbie’s hands ; “ but read that, 
and you will perceive you have been no loser by having 
known him.” 

It was a short deed of gift,"hy which “ Sir Edward 
Mauley, otherwise calfed Elshender the Recluse, endow- 
ed Halbert, or Robbie Elliot, and Grace Armstrong, in 
full property, with a considerable sum borrowed by Elliot 
from him.” 

Robbie’s joy was mingled with feelings which brought 
tears down his rough cheeks. 

“ It’s a queer thing,” he said ; “ hut I canna joy in 
the gear unless I kend the puir body was happy that 
gave it me.” 

“ Next to enjoying happiness ourselves,” said Rat- 
clifFe, “ is the consciousness of having bestowed it on 
others. Had all my master’s benefits been conferred like 
the present, what a different return would they have pro- 
duced ! But the indiscriminate profusion that would glut 
avarice, or supply prodigality, neither does good, nor is 
rewarded by gratitude. It is sowing the wind to reap the 
whirlwind.” 

“ And that wad he a light har’st,” said Robbie ; “ but 
wi’ my young leddy’s leave, I wad fain take down El- 
shie’s skeps o’ bees, and set them in Grace’s bit flower- 
yard at the Heugh-foot — they shall ne’er be smeekit by 
ony o’ huz. And the puir goat, she would be negleckit 
about a great toun like this ; and she could feed honnily 
on our lily lea by the hum side, and the hounds wad ken 
her in a day’s time, and never fash her, and Grace wad 
milk her ilka morning wi’ her ain hand, for Elshie’s sake ; 

14 * VOL. I. 


162 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


for though he was thrawn and cankered in his converse, 
he liket dumb creatures week” 

Hobbie’s requests were readily granted, not without 
some wonder at the natural delicacy of feeling which 
pointed out to him this mode of displaying his gratitude. 
He was delighted when Ratcliffe informed him that his 
benefactor should not remain ignorant of the care which 
lie took of his favourite. 

“ And mind be sure and tell him that grannie and the 
titties, and, abune a’, Grace and mysell, are weel and 
thriving, and that it’s a’ his doing — that canna but please 
him, ane wad think.” 

And Elliot and the family at Heugh-foot were and con- 
tinued to be, as fortunate and happy as his undaunted 
honesty, tenderness, and gallantry, so well merited. 

All bar between the marriage of EarnsclifF and Isabel- 
la was now removed, and the settlements which Ratcliffe 
produced on the part of Sir Edward Mauley, might have 
satisfied the cupidity of Ellieslaw himself. But Miss 
Vere and Ratcliffe thought it unnecessary to mention to 
Earnscliff that one great motive of Sir Edward in thus 
loading the young pair with benefits, was to expiate his 
liaving, many years before, shed the blood of his father 
ill a hasty brawl. If it be true, as Ratcliffe asserted, that 
the Dwarfs extreme misanthropy seemed to relax some- 
wliat, under the consciousness of having diffused happi- 
ness among so many, the recollection of this circumstance 
might probably be one of his chief motives for refusing 
obstinately ever to witness their state of contentment. 

Mareschal hunted, shot, and drank claret — tired of the 
country, went abroad, served three campaigns, came 
home, and married Lucy Ilderton. 

Years fled over the heads of Earnscliff and his wife, 
and found and left them contented and happy. The 
scheming ambition of Sir Frederick Langley engaged 
Inm in the unfortunate insurrection of 1715. He was 
made prisoner at Preston in Lancashire, with the Earl 
of Derwentwater, and others. His defence, and the dy- 
ing speech which he made at his execution, may be found 


THE BLACK DWARF. 


163 


in the stale trials. Mr. Vere, supplied by his daughter 
with an ample income, continued to reside abroad, en- 
gaged deeply in the affair of Law’s bank during the 
regency of the Duke of Orleans ; and was at one time 
supposed to be immensely rich. But on the bursting of 
that famous bubble, he was so much chagrined at being 
again reduced to a moderate annuity, (although he saw 
thousands of his companions in misfortune absolutely 
starving) that vexation of mind brought on a paralytic 
stroke, of which he died, after lingering under its effects 
a few weeks. 

Willie of Westburnflat fled from the wrath of Hobbie 
Elliot, as his betters did from the pursuit of the law. His 
patriotism urged him to serve his country abroad, while 
his reluctance to leave his native soil pressed him rather 
to remain in the beloved island, and collect purses, watch- 
es and rings on the high roads at home. Fortunately 
for him, the first impulse prevailed, and he joined the 
army under Marlborough ; obtained a commission, to 
which he was recommended by his services in collecting 
cattle for the commissariat ; returned home after many 
years, with some money, (how come by Heaven only 
knows) — demolished the peel-house at Westburnflat, and 
built in its stead, a high narrow onstead, of three stories, 
with a chimney at each end — drank brandy with the 
neighbours, whom, in his younger days, he had plun- 
dered — died in his bed, and is recorded upon his tomb- 
stone at Kirkwhistle, (still extant) as having played all the 
parts of a brave soldier, a discreet neighbour, and a 
sincere Christian. 

Mr. Ratcliffe resided usually with the family at Ellies- 
law ; but regularly every spring and autumn he absented 
himself for about a month. On the direction and pur- 
pose of his periodical journey he remained steadily si- 
lent ; but it was well understood that he was then in 
attendance on his unfortunate patron. At length, on his 
return from one of these visits, his grave countenance, 
and deep mourning dress, announced to the Ellieslaw 
family that their benefactor was no more. Sir Edward’s 


164 


TALES OF MY XANDLOED. 


death made no addition to their fortune, for he had di 
vested himself of his property during his life-time, and 
chiefly in their favour. RatclifFe, his sole confidant, died 
at a good old age, but without ever naming the place to 
which his master had finally retired, or the manner of his 
death, or the place of his burial. It was supposed that 
on all these particulars his patron had enjoined him strict 
secrecy. 

The sudden disappearance of Elshie from his extra- 
ordinary hermitage corroborated the reports which the 
common people had spread concerning him. Many be- 
lieved that, having ventured to enter a consecrated build- 
ing, contrary to his paction with the Evil One, he had 
been bodily carried off, while on his return to his cottage ; 
but most are of opinion that he only disappeared for a 
season, and continues to be seen from time to time among 
the hills. And retaining, according to custom, a more 
vivid recollection of his wild and desperate language, 
than of the benevolent tendency of most of his actions, 
he is usually identified with the malignant daBmon, called 
the Man of the Moors, whose feats were quoted by Mrs. 
Elliot to her grandsons ; and, accordingly, is generally^ 
represented as bewitching the sheep, causing the ewes to 
keh, that is, to cast their lambs, or seen loosening the im- 
pending wreath of snow to precipitate its weight on such 
as take shelter, during the storm, beneath the bank of a 
torrent, or under the shelter of a deep glen. In short, 
the evils most dreaded and deprecated by the inhabitants 
of. that pastoral countrj", are ascribed to the age icy o/ 
the Black Dwarf 


END OF THE BLACK DWARF. 


OLD MORTALITY 


INTRODUCTION 

TO 

THE REVISED EDITIOX. 


The remarkable person, called by the title of Old 
Mortality, was well known in Scotland about the end of 
the last century. His real name was Robert Paterson. 
He was a native, it is said, of the parish of Closeburn, 
in Dumfries-shire, and probably a mason by profession — 
at least educated to the use of the chisel. Whether fam- 
ily dissensions, or the deep and enthusiastic feeling of 
supposed duty, drove him to leave his dwelling, and adopt 
the singular mode of life in which he wandered, like a 
palmer, through Scotland, is not known. It could not be 
poverty, however, which prompted his journeys, for he 
never accepted anything beyond the hospitality which was 
willingly rendered him, and when that was not proffered, 
he always had money enough to provide for his own hum- 
ble wants. His personal appearance, and favourite, or 
rather sole occupation, are accurately described in the 
preliminary chapter of the following work. 

It is about thirty years since, or more, that the author 
met this singular person in the churchyard of Dunnottar, 
when spending a day or^tw’o with the late learned and 
excellent clergyman, Mr. Walker, the minister of that 
parish, for the purpose of a close examination of the 
ruins of the Castle of Dunnottar, and other subjects oi 
antiquarian research in that neighbourhood. Old Mor- 
tality chanced to be at the same place, on the usual busi- 


ii INTRODUCTION TO 

ness of his pilgrimage ; for the Castle of Dunnottar, 
though lying in the anti-covenanting district of the Mearns, 
was, with the parish churchyard, celebrated for the op- 
pressions sustained there by the Cameronians in the time 
of James II. 

It was in 1685, when Argyle was threatening a descent 
upon Scotland, and Monmouth was preparing to invade 
the west of England, that the Privy Council of Scotland, 
with cruel precaution, made a general arrest of more 
than a hundred persons in the southern and western prov- 
inces, supposed, from their religious principles, to be in- 
imical to Government, together with many women and 
children. These captives were driven northward like a 
flock of bullocks, but with less precaution to provide for 
their wants, and finally penned up in a subterranean dun- 
geon in the Castle of Dunnottar, having a window openftig 
to the front of a precipice which overhangs the German 
Ocean. They had suffered not a little on the journey, 
and were much hurt both at the scoffs of the northern 
prelatists, and the mocks, gibes, and contemptuous tunes 
played by the fiddlers and pipers who had come from 
every quarter as they passed, to triumph over the revilers 
of their calling. The repose which the melancholy dun- 
geon afforded them, was anything but undisturbed. The 
guards made them pay for every indulgence, even that 
of water ; and when some of the prisoners resisted a 
demand so unreasonable, and insisted on their right to 
have this necessary of life untaxed, their keepers emptied 
the water on the prison floor, saying, “ If they were 
obliged to bring water for the canting whigs, they were 
not bound to afford them the use of bowls or pitchers 
gratis.” 

In this prison, which is still termed the Whig’s Vault, 
several died of the diseases incidental to such a situation ; 
and others broke their limbs, and incurred fatal injury, in 
desperate attempts to escape from their stern prison- 
house. Over the graves of these unhappy persons, their 
friends, after the Revolution, erected a monument witn 
a suitable, inscription. 


OLD MORTALITY. 


Ill 


This peculiar shrine of the Whig martyrs is very much 
honoured by their descendants, though residing at a great 
distance from the land of their captivity and death. My 
friend, the Rev. Mr. Walker, told me, that being once 
upon a tour in the south of Scotland, probably about foi ty 
years since, he had the bad luck to involve himself in the 
labyrinth of passages and tracks which cross, in every 
direction, the extensive waste called Lochar Moss, near 
Dumfries, out of which it is scarcely possible for a stran- 
ger to extricate himself ; and there was no small difficulty 
in procuring a guide, since such people as he saw were 
engaged in digging their peats — a work of paramount 
necessity, which will hardly brook interruption. Mr. 
Walker could, therefore, only procure unintelligible di- 
rections in the southern brogue, which differs widely from 
that of the Mearns. He was beginning to think himself 
in a serious dilemma, when he stated his case to a farmer 
of rather the better class, who was employed, as the oth- 
ers, in digging his winter fuel. The old man at first made 
the same excuse with those who had already declined 
acting as the traveller’s guide ; but perceiving him in 
great perplexity, and paying the respect due to his pro- 
fession, “ You are a clergyman, sir ?” he said. Mr. 
Walker assented. “ And I observe from your speech, 
that you are from the north ?” — “ You are right, my good 
friend,” was the reply. “ And may I ask if you have 
ever heard of a place called Dunnottar ?” — “ 1 ought to 
know something about it, my friend,” said Mr. Walker, 
“ since I have been several years the minister of the 
parish.” — ‘‘ I am glad to hear it,” said the Durnfriesian, 
“ for one of my near relations lies buried there, and there 
is, I believe, a monument over his grave. I would give 
half of what I am aught, to know if it is still in existence.” 
— “ He was one of those who perished in the Whig’s 
Vault at the castle ?” said the minister ; “ for there are 
few southlanders besides lying in our churchyard, and 
none, I think, having monuments.” — “ Even sae — even 
sae,” said the old Cameronian, for such was the farmer. 


V 


INTRODUCTION TO 


He then laid down his spade, cast on his coat, and heart- 
ily offered to see the minister out of the moss, if he should 
lose the rest of the day^s dargue. Mr. Walker was able 
to requite him amply, in his opinion, by reciting the epi- 
taph, which he remembered by heart. The old man was 
enchanted with finding the memory of his grandfather or 
great-grandfather faithfully recorded amongst the names 
of brother sufferers ; and rejecting all other offers of re- 
compense, only requested, after he had guided Mr. Walk- 
er to a- safe and dry road, that he would let him have a 
written copy of the inscription. 

It was whilst I was listening to this story, and looking 
at the monument referred to, that I saw Old Mortality 
engaged in his daily task of cleaning and repairing the 
ornaments and epitaphs upon the tomb. His appearance 
and equipment were exactly as described in the Novel. 
I was very desirous to see something of a person so sin- 
gular, and expected to have done so, as he took up his 
quarters with the hospitable and liberal-spirited minister. 
But though Mr. Walker invited him up after dinner to 
partake of a glass of spirits and water, to which he was 
supposed not to be very averse, yet he would not speak 
frankly upon the subject of his occupation. He was in 
bad humour, and had, according to his phrase, no free- 
dom for conversation with us. 

His spirit had been sorely vexed by hearing, in a certain 
Aberdonian kirk, the psalmody directed by a pitch-pipe, 
or some similar instrument, which was to Old Mortality 
the abomination of abominations. Perhaps, after all, he 
did not feel himself at ease with his company ; he migh' 
suspect the questions asked by a north-country ministe 
and a young barrister to savour more of idle curiosity 
than profit. At any rale, in the phrase of John Bunyan, 
Old Mortality went on his way, and 1 saw him no more. 

The remarkable figure and occupation of this ancient 
pilgrim was recalled to my memory by an account trans- 
mitted by my friend Mr. Joseph Train, supervisor of ex- 
cise at Dumfries, to whom 1 owe many obligations of a 


OLD MORTALITY. 


V 


similar nature. From this, besides some other circum 
stances, among which are those of the old man’s death, 
I learned the particulars described in the text. I am also 
informed, that the old palmer’s family, in the third gene- 
ration, survives, and is highly respected both for talents 
and worth. 

While these sheets were passing through the press, I 
received the following communication from Mr. Train, 
whose undeviating kindness had, during the intervals of 
laborious duty, collected its materials from an indubitable 
source. 

“ In the course of my periodical visits to the Glenkens, 
I have become intimately acquainted with Robert Pater- 
son, a son of Old Mortality, who lives in the little village 
of Balmaclellan ; and although he is now in the 70th 
year of his age, preserves all the vivacity of youth — has 
a most retentive memory, and a mind stored with infor- 
mation far above what could be expected from a person 
in his station of life. To him I am indebted for the fol- 
lowing particulars relative to his father, and his descend- 
ants down to the present time. 

‘‘ Robert Paterson, alias Old Mortality, was the son 
of Walter Paterson and Margaret Scott, who occupied 
the farm of Haggisha, in the parish of Hawick, during 
nearly the first half of the eighteenth century. Here 
Robert was born, in t]ie memorable year 1715. 

“ Being the youngest son of a numerous family, he, at 
an early age, went to serve with an elder brother, named 
Francis, who rented, from Sir John Jardine of Apple- 
garth, a small tract in Corncockle Moor, near Lochma- 
ben. During his residence there, he became acquainted 
with Elizabeth Gray, daughter of Robert Gray, gardener 
to Sir John Jardine, whom he afterwards married. His 
wife had been, for a considerable time, a cook-maid to 
Sir Thomas Kirkpatrick of Closeburn, who procured for 
her husband, from the Duke of Queensberry, an advan- 
tageous lease of the freestone quarry of Gatelowbrigg, in 
2d 14 VOL. I. 


VI 


INTRODUCTION TO 


the parish of Morton. Here he built a house, and bad 
as much land as kept a horse and cow. My informant 
cannot say, with certainly, the year in which his father 
took up his residence at Gatelowbrigg, but he is sure it 
must have been only a short time prior to the year 1746, 
as, during the memorable frost in 1740, he says his 
mother still resided in the service of Sir Thomas Kirk- 
patrick. When the Highlanders were returning from 
England on their route to Glasgow, in the year 1745-6, 
they plundered Mr. Paterson’s house at Gatelowbrigg, 
and carried him a prisoner as far as Glenbuck, merely 
Decause he said to one of the straggling army, that their 
retreat might have been easily foreseen, as the strong arm 
of the Lord was evidently raised, not only against the 
Dloody and wicked house of Stewart, but against all who 
attempted to support the abominable heresies of the 
Church of Rome. From this circumstance it appears 
that Old Mortality had, even at that early period of his 
life, imbibed the religious enthusiasm by which he after- 
wards became so much distinguished. 

“ The religious sect called Hill-men, or Cameronians, 
was at that time much noted for austerity and devotion, 
in imitation of Cameron, their founder, of whose tenets 
Old Mortality became a most strenuous supporter. He 
made frequent journeys into Galloway to attend their 
conventicles, and occasionally carried with him grave- 
stones from his quarry at Gatelowbrigg, to keep in remem- 
brance the righteous whose dust had been gathered to 
their fathers. Old Mortality was not one of those reli- 
gious devotees, who, although one eye is seemingly turn- 
ed towards heaven, keep the other steadfastly fixed on 
some sublunary object. As his enthusiasm increased, 
his journeys into Galloway became more frequent ; and 
he gradually neglected even the common prudential duty 
of providing for his offspring. From about the year 
1758, he neglected wholly to return from Galloway to 
his wife and five children at Gatelowbrigg, which induced 
ler to send her eldest son Walter, then only twelve year's 


OLD MOIITAI.ITY. 


VII 


of age, to Galloway, in search of his father. After trav- 
ersing nearly the whole of that extensive district, from 
the Nick of Benncorie to the Fell of Barullion, he found 
him at last working on the Carneronian monuments, in 
the old kirkyard of Kirkchrist, on the west side of the 
Dee, opposite the town of Kirkcudbright. The little 
wanderer used all the influence in his power to induce 
his father to return to his family ; but in vain. Mrs. 
Paterson sent even some of her female children into 
Galloway in search of their father, for the same purpose 
of persuading him to return home ; but without any sue- • 
cess. At last, in the summer of 1768, she removed to 
the little upland village of Balmaclellan, in the Glenkens 
of Galloway, where, upon the small pittance derived 
from keeping a little school, she supported her numerous 
family in a respectable manner. 

“ There is a small monumental stone in the farm of 
the Caldon, near the House of the Hill, in Wigtonshire, 
which is highly venerated as being the first erected, by 
Old Mortality, to the memory of several persons who 
fell at that place in defence of their religious tenets in 
the civil war, in the reign of Charles Second.* 

“ From the Caldon, the labours of Old Mortality, in 
the course of time, spread over nearly all the Lowlands 
of Scotland. There are few churchyards in Ayrshire, 
Galloway, or Dumfries-shire, where the work of his 
chisel is not yet to be seen. It is easily distinguished 
from the work of any other artist by the primitive rude- 
ness of the emblems of death, and of the inscriptions 
which adorn the ill-formed blocks of his erection. This 
task of repairing and erecting gravestones, practised 
without fee or reward, was the only ostensible employ- 
ment of this singular person for upwards of forty years. 
The door of every Cameronian’s house was indeed open 
to him at all times when he chose to enter, and he was 


* “ The house was ■itormed by a Captain Orchard or Urquhart. who was 
shot in the attack.” 


Vlll 


INTliODUCTIOX TO 


gladly received as an inmate of the family ; but he did 
not invariably accept of these civilities, as may be seen 
by the following account of bis frugal expenses, found, 
amongst other little papers, (some of which I have like- 
wise in my possession,) in his pocket-book after his 
death. 


** Gatehouse of Fleet, 4//t February, 1796. 

ROBERT PATERSON debtor tO MARGARET CHRTSTALE. 

To drye Lodginge for seven weeks, - - . - • L.O 4 1 


To Four Auchlet of Ait Meal, - 034 

« To 6 Lippies of Potatoes, - 013 

To Lent Money at the time of Mr. Reid’s Sacrament, - 0 6 0 

To 3 Cbappins of Yell with Sandy the Keelman,* - 0 0 9 


L.O 15 6 

Received in part, - - - 0 10 0 

Unpaid, - - L.O 6 5 

“ This Statement shows the religious wanderer to have 
neen very poor in his old age ; but he was so more by 
(ihoice than through necessity, as at the period here al- 
luded to, his children were all comfortably situated, and 
were most anxious to keep their father at home, but no 
entreaty could induce him to alter his erratic way of life. 
He travelled from one churchyard to another, mounted 
on his old white pony, till the last day of his existence, 
and died, as you have described, atBankhill, near Lock- 
erby, on the I4th February, 1801, in the 86th year of 
his age. As soon as his body was found, intimation was 
sent to his sons at Balmaclellan ; but from the great 
depth of the snow at that time, the letter communicating 
the particulars of his death was so long detained by the 
way, that the remains of the pilgrim were interred before 
any of his relations could arrive at Bankhill. 

“ The following is an exact copy of the account of 
his funeral expenses, — the original of which I have in 
my possession : — 


* “ A well-known humourist, still alive, popularly called by the nartie o 
Old Keelybags, who deals in the keel or chalk with which farmers mark tne'» 
flocks.” 


OLD MORTALITY. 


1 % 


Memorandum of the Funral Charges of Robert Paterson, who dyed at 
Bankhill on the 14th day of February, 1801. 


To a Coffon, - 12 0 

To Munting for do. ....... 028 

To a Shirt for him, ....... 0 6 6 

To a pair of Gotten Stockings, ..... 020 

To Bread at the Founral, ...... 026 

To Chise at ditto, ....... 030 

To 1 pint Rume, ........ 046 

To 1 pint Whiskie, ....... 040 

To a man going to Annan, - ..... 020 

To the grave diger, ....... 010 

To Linnen for a sheet to him, ..... 028 


L.2 1 10 

Taken off him when dead, ... 176 

L.O 14 4 

“ The above account is authenticated by the son of 
the deceased. 

“ My friend was prevented by indisposition from even 
going to Bankhill to attend the funeral of his father, which 
I regret very much, as he is not aware in what church- 
yard he was interred. 

“ For the purpose of erecting a small monument to 
his memory, 1 have made every possible inquiry, wherever 
1 thought there was the least chance of finding out where 
Old Mortality was laid ; but I have done so in vain, as 
his death is not registered in the session-book of any of 
the neighbouring parishes. I am sorry to think, that in 
all probability, this singular person, who spent so many 
years of his lengthened existence in striving with his 
chisel and mallet to perpetuate the memory of many less 
deserving than himself, must remain even without a single 
stone to mark out the resting place of his mortal remains. 

“ Old Mortality had three sons, Robert, Walter, and 
John ; the former, as has been already mentioned, lives 
in the village of Balmaclellan, in comfortable circumstan- 
ces, and is much respected by his neighbours. Walter 
died several years ago, leaving behind him a family now 
respectably situated in this point. John went to America 
2d 14* VOL. I. 


X 


INTRODUCTION TO 


in the year 1776, and, after various turns of fortune, set- 
tled at Baltimore.” 

Old Nol himself is said to have loved an innocent jest. 
(See Captain Hodgson’s Memoirs.) Old Mortality some- 
what resembled the Protector in this turn to festivity. Like 
Master Silence, he had been merry twice and once in his 
time ; but even his jests were of a melancholy and sepul- 
chral nature, and sometimes attended with inconvenience 
to himself, as will appear from the following anecdote : — 

The old man was at one time following his wonted 
occupation of repairing the tombs of the martyrs, in the 
churchyard of Girthon, and the sexton of the parish was 
plying his kindred task at no small distance. Some 
roguish urchins were sporting near them, and by their 
noisy gambols disturbing the old men in their serious oc- 
cupation. The most petulant of the juvenile party were 
two or three boys, grandchildren of a person well known 
by the name of Cooper Climent. This artist enjoyed 
almost a monopoly in Girthon and the neighbouring par- 
ishes, for making and selling ladles, caups, bickers, bowls, 
spoons, cogues, and trenchers, formed of wood, for the 
use of the country people. It must be noticed, that not- 
withstanding the excellence of the Cooper’s vessels, they 
were apt, when new, to impart a reddish tinge to what- 
ever liquor was put into them, a circumstance not uncom- 
mon in like cases. 

The grandchildren of this dealer in wooden work took 
it into their head to ask the sexton, what use he could 
possibly make of the numerous fragments of old coffins 
which were thrown up in opening new graves. “ Do 
you not know,” said Old Mortality, “ that he sells them 
to your grandfather, who makes them into spoons, trench- 
ers, bickers, bowies, and so forth ?” At this assertion, 
the youthful group broke up in great confusion and dis- 
gust, on reflecting how many meals they had eaten out of 
dishes which, by Old Mortality’s account, were only fit to 
be used at a banquet of witches or of ghoules. They car- 
ried the tidings home, when many a dinner was spoiled by 


OLD MORTALITY. 


XI 


the loathing which the intelligence imparted ; for the ac- 
count of the materials was supposed to explain the red- 
dish tinge which, even in the days of the Cooper’s fame, 
had seemed somewhat suspicious. The ware of Cooper 
Climent was rejected in horror, much to the benefit of 
his rivals the muggers, who dealt in earthernware. The 
man of cutty-spoon and ladle saw his trade interrupted, 
and learned the reason, by his quondam customers com- 
ing upon him in wrath to return the goods which were 
composed of such unhallowed materials, and demand re- 
payment of their money. In this disagreeable predica- 
ment, the forlorn artist cited Old Mortality into a court of 
justice, where he proved that the wood he used in his 
trade was that of the staves of old wine-pipes bought 
from smugglers, with whom the country then abounded, 
a circumstance which fully accounted for their imparting 
a colour to their contents. Old Mortality himself made 
the fullest declaration, that he had no other purpose in 
making the assertion, than to check the petulance of 
the children. But it is easier to take away a good name 
than to restore it. Cooper Climent’s business continued 
to languish, and he died in a state of poverty. 


Hilflqx© <>f .■i^’. V MiitsCi 

r ■' i^qwxD mfj io 'n^ Hf #?*>* 

^1 ;:, ^ to fvn; v ?tffT iij?d 

V> ^ -“; r-'=WW«>4, 

wi' fli Jtf5!5,|) 

;n«i'Wi?it 'jrfhjKi h«if.- v-^j 
^^1 r«' W «id «irf.l 

#f<utv/ >iw^o^; ..<if tjTini'n m fiiriw <:fiul >[fv<,M -■•■ 

'<»'v bm; htr*‘K)Kr,ri«i# V? b' - m- • < 

-s»fW^r>'K( H I • k. 

' .‘H., " 'urw^i. ha} K»i'> .‘-i-M*;';. tn-»;-i,M '‘! 
a»^n mi iiflf^ hkr,,,;t- .♦„> ^-irniw <yi _ r, 

H^iikf--^iri\f/ J^a 'k> :<4 j :v if |H ^^^f->v j = J 

0i^hitii4^^ ft^u inf^o i .idr tr^<'.:v. siuy, .r^*-A-:!-:^^Hujf' i: 

Iif>«miii| hi(i ..jj-Ksjv.r. x -• 

ttH wv.v.-ujq -»t' WR 

U‘ •' '. ; i'.i/'-jq «»<!.? A i'ul'j f>{ , {:>niD' , ^>ti.i w^i^ft" 

«.,v»v/« .ti3(| «,,<<» loibaisf ti 4. .(f;»ibSl:>^: 

l>5> » > » t irXs?<ii>''«iiWf i4<|oov) .4 • 0i ‘f ffift 

Ip Aiu ^Miif) {ta^ .imm-j|w4'.«r 

, ; ' ■ ” ■ ' ■ ■ . •. 


; S- •• V- , "C 


OLD MORTALITY. 


CHAPTER I. 

Preliminary. 

Why seeks he with unwearied toil 
Through death’s dim walks to urge his way. 
Reclaim his long-asserted spoil, 

And lead oblivion into day ? 

Langihome. 


Most readers,” says the Manuscript of Mr. Pattie- 
son, “ must have witnessed with delight the joyous burst 
which attends the dismissing of a village-school on a 
fine summer evening. The buoyant spirit of childhood, 
repressed with so much difficulty during the tedious hours 
of discipline, may then be seen to explode, as it were, in 
shout, and song, and frolic, as the little urchins join in 
groups on their play-ground, and arrange their matches 
of sport for the evening. But there is one individual 
who partakes of the relief afforded by the moment of 
dismission, whose feelings are not so obvious to the eye 
of the spectator, or so apt to receive his sympathy. 1 
mean the teacher himself, who, stunned with the hum, 
and suffocated with the closeness of his school-room, has 
spent the whole day (himself against a host) in control- 
ling petulance, exciting indifference to action, striving to 
enlighten stupidity, and labouring to soften obstinacy ; 
and whose very powers of intellect have been confound- 
ed by hearing the same dull lesson repeated a hundred 
times by rote, and only varied by the various blunders o* 


166 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


the reciters. Even the flowers of classic genius, with 
which his solitary fancy is most gratified, have been ren- 
dered degraded, in his imagination, by their connection 
with tears, with errors, and with punishment ; so that the 
Eclogues of Virgil and Odes of Horace are each insepa- 
rably allied in association with the sullen figure and mo- 
notonous recitation of some blubbering school-boy. If to 
these mental distresses are added a delicate frame of 
body, and a mind ambitious of some higher distinction 
than that of being the tyrant of childhood, the reader 
may have some slight conception of the relief which a 
solitary walk, in the cool of a fine summer evening, af- 
fords to the head which has ached, and the nerves which 
have been shattered, for so many hours, in plying the 
irksome task of public instruction. 

“ To me these evening strolls have been the happiest 
hpurs of an unhappy life ; and if any gentle reader shall 
hereafter find pleasure in perusing these lucubrations, I 
am not unwilling he should know, that the plan of them 
has been usually traced in those moments, when relief 
from toil and clamour, combined with the quiet scenery 
around me, has disposed my mind to the task of compo- 
sition. 

“ My chief haunt in these hours of golden leisure, is 
the banks of the small stream, which, winding through a 
‘ lone vale of green bracken,’ passes in front of the vil- 
lage school-house of Gandercleugh. For the first quar- 
ter of a mile, perhaps, I may be disturbed from my med- 
itations, in order to return the scrape, or doffed bonnet, 
of such stragglers among my pupils as fish for trouts or 
minnows in the little brook, or seek rushes and wild-flow- 
ers by its margin. But, beyond the space I have men- 
tioned, the juvenile anglers do not, after sunset, volunta- 
rily extend their excursions. The cause is, that farther 
up the narrow valley, and in a recess which seems scooped 
out of the side of the steep heathy bank, there is a de- 
serted burial-ground which the little cowards are fearful 
of approaching in the twilight. To me, however, the 
place has an inexpressible charm. It has been long the 


OLD MOllTALITY. 


1G7 


favourite termination of my walks, and, if my kind patron 
forgets not his promise, will (and probably at no very 
distant day) be my final resting-place after my mortal 
pilgrimage.* 

“ Jt is a spot which possesses all the solemnity of feel- 
ing attached to a burial-ground, without exciting those of 
a more unpleasing description. Having been very little 
used for many years, the few hillocks which rise above 
the level plain are covered with the same short velvet 
turf. The monuments, of which there are not above 
seven or eight, are half sunk in the ground, and over- 
grown with moss*. No newly-erected tomb disturbs the 
sober serenity of our reflections by reminding us of re- 
cent calamity, and no rank -springing grass forces upon 
our imagination the recollection, that it owes its dark lux- 
uriance to the foul and festering remnants of mortality 
which ferment beneath. The daisy which sprinkles the 
sod, and the harebell which hangs over it, derive their 
pure nourishment from the dew of Heaven, and their 
growth impresses us with no degrading or disgusting re- 
collections. Death has indeed been here, and its traces 
are before us ; but they are softened and deprived of their 
horror by our distance from the period when they have 
been first impressed. Those who sleep beneath are only 
connected wdth us by the reflection that they have once 
been what we now are, and that, as their reliques are now 
identified with their mother earth, ours shall, at some fu- 
ture period, undergo the same transformation. 

“ Yet, although the moss has been collected on the 
most modern of these humble tombs during four genera- 
tions of mankind, the memory of some of those who sleep 
beneath them is still held in reverend remembrance. It 
•s true, that, upon the largest, and, to an antiquary, the 
most interesting monument of the group, which bears the 


* Note by Mr Jedediah Cleishbotham.— That I kept my plight in this mel 
ancholy matter with my deceased and lamented friend, appeareth from a hand- 
some headstone, erected at my proper charges in this spot , bearing the name 
and calling of Peter Paltieson, with the date of bis nativity and sepulture; 
together also with a testimony of his merits, attested by myself, as his superior 
and patron. — J. C. 


168 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


effigies of a doughty knight in his hood of mail, with his 
shield hanging on his breast, the armorial bearings are 
defaced by time, and a few worn-out letters may be read 

at the pleasure of the decipherer, Dns. Johan de 

Hamel, or Johan de Lamel And it is also 

true, that of another tomb richly sculptured with an orna- 
mental cross, mitre, and pastoral staff, tradition can 
only aver, that a certain nameless Bishop lies interred 
there. But upon other two stones which lie beside, may 
still be read in rude prose, and ruder rhyme, the history 
of those who sleep beneath them. They belong,* we are 
assured by the epitaph, to the class of persecuted Pres- 
byterians who afforded a melancholy subject for history 
in the times of Charles II. and his successor.* In re- 
turning from the battle of Pentland Hills, a party of the 
insurgents had been attacked in this glen by a small de- 
tachment of the King’s troops, and three or four either 
killed in the skirmish, or shot after being made prisoners, 
as rebels taken with arms in their hands. The peasan- 
try continue to attach to the tombs of those victims of 
prelacy an honour which they do not render to more splen- 
did mausoleums ; and, when they point them out to their 
sons, and narrate the fate of the sufferers, usually conclude, 
by exhorting them to be ready, should times call for it, 
to resist to the death in the cause of civil and religious 
liberty, like their brave forefathers. 

“ Although I am far from venerating the peculiar ten- 
ets asserted by those who call themselves the followers of 
those men, and whose intolerance and narrow-minded 
bigotry are at least as conspicuous as their devotional zeal, 
yet it is without depreciating the memory of those suffer- 
ers, many of whom united the independent sentiments oi 
a Hampden with the suffering zeal of a Hooper or La- 
timer. On the other hand it would be unjust to forget, 
that many even of those who had been most active in 
crushing what they conceived the rebellious and seditious 


* James, Seventh King of Scotland of that nanae, and Second according to 
the numeration of the Kings of England. — J. C. 


OM) MORTALITY. 


169 


spirit of those unhappy wanderers, displayed themselves, 
when called upon to suffer for their political and religious 
opinions, the same daring and devoted zeal, tinctured, in 
their case, with chivalrous loyalty, as in the former with 
republican enthusiasm. It has often been remarked of 
the Scottish character, that the stubbornness with which 
it is moulded, shows most to advantage in adversity, when 
it seems akin to the native sycamore of their hills, which 
scorns to be biassed in its mode of growth even by the 
influence of the prevailing wind, but, shooting its branches 
with equal boldness in every direction, shows no weather- 
side to the storm, and may be broken, but can never be 
bended. It must be understood that I speak of my coun- 
trymen as they fall under my own observation. When in 
foreign countries, I have been informed that they are more 
docile. But it is time to return from this digression. 

“ One summer evening, as in a stroll, such as I have 
described, I approached this deserted mansion of the dead, 
I was somewhat surprised to hear sounds distinct from 
those which usually sooth its solitude, the gentle chiding, 
namely, of the brook, and the sighing of the wind in the 
boughs of three gigantic ash-trees, which mark the cem- 
etery. The clink of a hammer was, on this occa- 
sion, distinctly heard ; and I entertained some alarm that 
a march-dyke, long meditated by the two proprietors 
whose estates were divided by my favourite brook, was 
about to be drawn up the glen, in order to substitute its 
rectilinear deformity for the graceful winding of the nat- 
ural boundary.* As I approached, I was agreeably un- 
deceived. An old man was seated upon the monument 


* I deem it fitting that the reader should be apprized, that this limita^ boun- 
•dary between the conterminous heritable property of his honour the Laird of 
Gandercleugh, and his honour the Laird of Gusedub, was to have been in fash- 
ion an agger, or rather mums of uncemented granite, called by the vul^r, a 
dry-stane dyke, surmounted, or coped, cespitemridi, i. e. with a sod-turf. Truly 
their honours fell into discord concerning two roods of marshy ground, near the 
cove called the Bedral’s Beild : and the controversy, having some years bygone 
been removed from before the judges of the land, (with whom it abode long,) 
evenunto the Great City of London and the Assembly of the Nobles therein, is, 
as I may say, adhzic in pendente.~^i . C. 

J5 VOL. I. 


170 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


of the slaughtered Presbyterians, and busily employed im 
deepening, with his chisel, the letters of the inscription, 
which, announcing, in scriptural language, the promised 
blessings of futurity to be the lot of the slain, anathema- 
tized the murderers with corresponding violence. A blue 
bonnet of unusual dimensions covered the grey hairs of 
the pious workman. His dress was a large old-fashioned 
coat, of the coarse cloth called hoddin-grey, usually worn 
by the elder peasants, with waistcoat and breeches of the 
same ; and the whole suit, though still in decent repair, 
bad obviously seen a train of long service. Strong clout- 
ed shoes, studded with hobnails, ?ind gramoches or leggins, 
made of thick black cloth, completed his equipment. Be- 
side him, fed among the graves a pony, the companion of 
his journey, whose extreme whiteness, as well as its pro- 
jecting bones and hollow eyes, indicated its antiquity. It 
was harnessed in the most simple manner, with a pair of 
branks, a hair tether, or halter, and a sunk, or cushion of 
straw, instead of bridle and saddle. A canvass pouch hung 
around the neck of the animal, for the purpose, probably, 
of containing the rider’s tools, and anything else he might 
have occasion to carry with him. Although I had never 
seen the old man before, yet, from the singularity of his 
employment, and the style of his equipage, I had no 
difficulty in recognizing a religious itinerant whom I had 
often heard talked of, and who was known in various- 
parts of Scotland by the title of Old Mortality. 

“ Where this man was born, or what was his real name, 

I have never been able to learn ; nor are the • motives 
which made him desert his home, and adopt the erratic 
mode of life which he pursued, known to me except very 
generally. According to the belief of most people, he 
was a native of either the county of Dumfries or Gallo- 
way, and lineally descended from some of those cham- 
pions of the Covenant whose deeds and sufferings were 
his favourite theme. He is said to have held, at one pe- 
riod of his life, a small moorland farm ; but, whether from 
pecuniary losses, or domestic misfortune, he had long re- 


OLD MORTALITY. 


171 


nounced that and every other gainful calling. In the lan- 
guage of Scripture, he left his house, his home, and his 
kindred, and wandered about until the day of his death, 
a period, of nearly thirty years. 

“ During this long pilgrimage, the pious enthusiast reg- 
ulated his circuit so as annually to visit the graves of the 
unfortunate Covenanters who suffered by the sword, or 
by the executioner, during the reigns of the two last mon- 
archs of the Stuart line. These are most numerous in 
the western districts of Ayr, Galloway, and Dumfries ; 
but they are also to be found in other parts of Scotland, 
wherever the fugitives had fought, or fallen, or suffered 
by military or civil execution. Their tombs are gften 
apart from all human habitation, in the remote moors and 
wilds to which the wanderers had fled for concealment. 
But wherever they existed. Old Mortality was sure to 
visit them when his annual round brought them within his 
reach. In the most lonely recesses of the mountains, the 
moor-fowl shooter has been often surprised to find him 
busied in cleaning the moss from the grey stones, renew- 
ing with his chisel the half-defaced inscriptions, and re- 
pairing the emblems of death with which these, simple 
monuments are usually adorned. Motives of the most 
sincere, though fanciful devotion, induced the old man to 
dedicate so many years of existence to perform this trib- 
ute to the memory of the deceased warriors of the church. 
He considered himself as fulfilling a sacred duty, while 
renewing to the eyes of posterity the decaying emblems 
of the zeal and sufferings of their forefathers, and there- 
by trimming, as it were, the beacon-light, which was to 
warn future generations to defend their religion even unto 
blood. 

“ In all his wanderings, the old pilgrim never seemed 
to ne«3d, or was known to accept, pecuniary assistance. 
It is true his wants were very few ; for wherever he went, 
he found ready quarters in the house of some Camero- 
nian of his own sect, or of some other religious person. 
The hospitality which was reverentially paid to him he 
alwavs acknowledged, by repairing the grave-stones (if 


172 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


:heir existed any) belonging to the family or ancestors of 
his host. As the wanderer was usually to be seen bent 
on this pious task within the precincts of some counuy 
church-yard, or reclined on the solitary tombstone among 
the heath, disturbing the plover and the black-cock with 
the clink of his chisel and mallet, with his old white pony 
grazing by bis side, he acquired, from his converse among 
the dead, the popular appellation of Old Mortality. 

“ The character of such a man could have in it little 
connection even with innocent gaiety. Yet, among those 
of his own religious persuasion, he is reported to have 
been cheerful. The descendants of persecutors, or those 
whom he supposed guilty of entertaining similar tenets, 
and the scoffers at religion by whom he was sometimes 
assailed, he usually termed the generation of vipers. 
Conversing with others, he was grave and sententious, not 
without a cast of severity. But he is said never to have 
been observed to give way to violent passion, excepting 
upon one occasion, when a mischievous truant-boy de- 
faced with a stone the nose of a cherub’s face which the 
old man was engaged in re-touching. I am in general a 
sparer of the rod, notwithstanding the maxim of Solomon, 
for which school-boys have little reason to thank his mem- 
ory ; but on this, occasion 1 deemed it proper to show, 
that I did not hate the child. — But I must return to the 
circumstances attending my first interview with this inter- 
esting enthusiast. 

“ ]n accosting Old Mortality, I did not fail to pay re- 
spect to his years and his principles, beginning my address 
by a respectful apology for interrupting his labours. The 
old man intermitted the operation of the chisel, took oft 
his sj)ectacles and wiped them, then replacing them on 
his nose, acknowledged my courtesy by a suitable return. 
Encouraged by his affability, I intruded upon him some 
questions concerning the sufferers on whose monument 
he was now employed. To talk of the exploits of the 
Covenanters was the delight, as to repair their monuments 
was the business, of his life. He was profuse in the com- 
munication of all the minute information which he had 


OLD MORTALITY. 


173 


collected concerning them, their wars, and their wander- 
ings. One would almost have supposed he must have 
been their contemporary, and have actually beheld the 
passages which he related, so much had he identified his 
feelings and opinions with theirs, and so much had his 
narratives the circumstantiality of an eye-witness. 

“ ‘ We,’ he said, in a tone of exultation, ‘ we are the 
only true whigs.* Carnal men have assumed that trium- 
phant appellation, following him whose kingdom is of this 
world. Which of them would sit six hours on a wet hill- 
side to hear a godly sermon 7 I trow an hour o’t wad staw 
them. They are ne’er a hair better than them that 
shamena to take upon themsells the persecuting name of 
blude-thirsty tories. Self-seekers all of them, strivers 
after wealth, power, and worldly ambition, and forgetters 
alike of what has been dree’d and done by the mighty 
men who stood in the gap in the great day of wrath. Nae 
wonder they dread the accomplishment of what was spo 
ken by the mouth of the worthy Mr. Peden, (that pre- 
cious servant of the Lord, none of whose words fell to the 
ground) that the French monzies* sail rise as fast in the 
glens of Ayr, and the Kenns of Galloway, as ever the 
Highlandmen did in 1677. And now they are gripping 
to the bow and to the spear, when they suld be mourning 
for a sinfu’ land and a broken covenant.’ 

“ Soothing the old man by letting his peculiar opinions 
pass without contradiction, and anxious to prolong con- 
versation with so singular a character, I prevailed upon 
him to accept that hospitality which Mr. Cleishbotham is 
always willing to extend to those who need it. In our 
way to the schoolmaster’s house, we called at the Wallace 
Inn, where I was pretty certain I should find my patron 
about that hour of the evening. After a courteous inter- 
change of civilities. Old Mortality was, with difficulty, 
prevailed upon to join his host in a single glass of liquor, 
and that on condition that he should be permitted to name 

* Probably monsieurs. It would seem that this was spoken during- the 
tipptehensioi^s of invasion from France, — Publishers. 

VOL. I, 


174 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


the pledge, which he prefaced with a grace of about five 
minutes, and then, with bonnet doffed and eyes uplifted, 
drank to the memory of those heroes of the Kirk who 
had first uplifted her banner upon the mountains. As no 
persuasion could prevail on him to extend his co/jviviality 
to a second cup, my patron accompanied him home, and 
accommodated him in the prophet’s chamber, as it is his 
pleasure to call the closet which holds a spare bed, and 
which is frequently a place of retreat for the poor 
traveller.* 

“ The next day I took leave of Old Mortality, who 
seemed affected by the unusual attention with w'hich ] had 
cultivated his acquaintance and listened to his conversa- 
tion. After he had mounted, not without difficulty, the 
old white pony, he took me by the hand and said, ‘ The 
blessing of our Master be with you, young man! My 
hours are like the ears of the latter harvest, and your days 
are yet in the spring ; and yet you may be gathered into 
the garner of mortality before me, for the sickle of death 
cuts down the green as oft as the ripe, and there is a col- 
our in your cheek, that, like the bud of the rose, serveth 
oft to hide the worm of corruption. Wherefore labour 
as one who knoweth not when his master calleth. And 
if it be my lot to return to this village after ye are gane 
hame to your ain place, these auld withered hands will 
frame a stane of memorial, that your name may not perish 
from among the people.’ 

“ 1 thanked Old Mortality for his kind intentions in my 
behalf, and heaved a sigh, not, I think, of regret so much 
as of resignation, to think of the chance that I might soon 
require his good offices. But though, in all human proba- 
bility, he did not err in supposing, that my span of life 


* He might have added, and for the rich also ; since, I laud my stars, the 
^rcat of the earth have also taken harbourage in my poor domicile. And, dur- 
ing the service of my handmaiden, Dorothy, who was buxom and comely of 
aspect, his Honour the Laird of Smackawa, in his peregrinations to and from 
the metropolis, was wont to prefer my prophet’s chamber even to the sanded 
chamber of dais in the Wallace Inn, and to bestow a mutchkin, as he would 
jocosely say, to obtain the freedom of the house, but in reality to assure himself 
of my company during the evening. — J. C. 


OLD MORTALITY. 


176 


may be abridged in youth, he had over-estimated the pe- 
riod of his own pilgrimage on earth. It is now some 
years since he has been missed irf all his usual haunts 
while moss, lichen, and deer-hair, are fast covering those 
stones, to cleanse which had been the business of his life. 
About the beginning of this century he closed his mortal 
toils, being found on the highway near Lockerby, in Dum- 
fries-shire, exhausted and just expiring. The old white 
pony, the companion of all his wanderings, was standing 
by the side of his dying master. There was found about 
his person a sum of money sufficient for his decent inter- 
ment, which serves to show that his death was in no ways 
hastened by violence or by want. The common people 
still regard his memory with great respect ; and many are 
of opinion, that the stones which he repaired will not again 
equire the assistance of the chisel. They even assert, 
ihat on the tombs where the manner of the martyr’s mur- 
der is recorded, their names have remained indelibly leg- 
ible since the death of Old Mortality, while those of the 
persecutors, sculptured on the same monuments, have 
been entirely defaced. It is hardly necessary to say that 
this is a fond imagination, and that, since the time of the 
pious pilgrim, the monuments which were the objects of 
his care are hastening, like all earthly memorials, into 
ruin or decay. 

“ My readers will, of course, understand, that, in em- 
bodying into one compressed narrative many of the anec- 
dotes which I had the advantage of deriving from Old 
Mortality, I have been far from adopting either his style, 
his opinions, or even his facts, so far as they appear to 
have been distorted by party prejudice. I have endeav- 
oured to correct or verify them from the most authentic 
sources of tradition, afforded by the representatives of 
either party. 

“ On the part of the Presbyterians, I have consulted 
such moorland farmers from the western districts, as, by 
the kindness of their landlords, or otherwise, have been 
able, during the late general change of property, to retain 
possession of the grazings on which their grandsires fed 


176 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


their flocks and herds. I must own, that of late days, I 
have found this a limited source of information. I have, 
therefore, called in the supplementary aid of those modest 
Itinerants, whom the scrupulous civility of our ancestors 
denominated travelling merchants, but whom, of late, ac- 
commodating ourselves in this as in more material partic- 
ulars to the feelings and sentiments of our more wealthy 
neighbours, we have learned to call packmen, or pedlars. 
To country weavers travelling in hopes to get rid of their 
winter web, but more especially to tailors, who, from their 
sedentary profession, and the necessity, in our country, 
of exercising it by temporary residence in the families by 
whom they are employed, may be considered as possess- 
ing a complete register of rural traditions, I have been 
indebted for many illustrations of the narratives of Old 
Mortality, much in the taste and spirit of the original. 

“ I had more difficulty in finding materials for correct- 
ing the tone of partiality which evidently pervaded those 
stores of traditional learning, in order that I might be en- 
abled to present an unbiassed picture of the manners of 
that unhappy period, and, at the same time, to do justice 
to the merits of both parties. But I have been enabled 
to qualify the narratives of Old Mortality and his Came- 
ronian friends, by the reports of more than one descend- 
ant of ancient and honourable families, who, themselves 
decayed into the humble vale of life, yet look proudly 
back on the period when their ancestors fought and fell 
in behalf of the exiled house of Stuart. I may even 
boast right reverend authority on the same score ; for 
more than one nonjuring bishop, whose authority and in- 
come were upon as apostolical a scale as the greatest 
'ibominator of Episcopacy could well desire, have deign- 
ed, while partaking of the humble cheer of the Wallace 
Inn, to furnish me with information corrective of the facts 
which I learned from others. There are also here and 
there a laird or two, who, though they shrug their shoul- 
ders, profess no great shame in their fathers having ser- 
ved in the persecuting squadrons of Earlshall and Claver- 
house. From the gamekeepers of these gentlemen, an 


OJLD MORTALITY. 


177 


office the most apt of any other to become hereditary in 
such families, I have also contrived to collect much valu- 
able information. 

“ Upon the whole, 1 can hardly fear, that, at this time, 
in describing the operation which their opposite principles 
produced upon the good and bad men of both parties, I 
can be suspected of meaning insult or injustice to either. 
If recollection of former injuries, extra-loyalty, and con- 
tempt and hatred of their adversaries, produced rigour 
and tyranny in the one party, it will hardly be denied, on 
the other hand, that, if the zeal for God’s house did not 
eat up the conventiclers, it devoured, at least, to imitate 
the phrase of Dryden, no small portion of their loyalty, 
sober sense, and good breeding. We may safely hope, 
that the souls of the brave and sincere on either side have 
long looked down with surprise and pity upon the ill-ap- 
preciated motives which caused their mutual hatred and 
hostility, while in this valley of darkness, blood, and tears. 
Peace to their memory ! Let us think of them as the 
heroine of our only Scottish tragedy entreats her lord to 
think of her departed sire ; — 

“ O, rake not up the ashes of our fathers ! 

Implacable resentment was their crime, 

And grievous has the expiation been.” 


CHAPTER II 

Summon a hundred horse by break of day, 

To wait our pleasure at the castle gates. 

Douglas, 

Under the reign of the last Stuarts, there was an anx- 
ious wish on the part of government to counteract, by every 
means in their power, the strict or puritanical spirit which 
had been the chief characteristic of the republican gov- 
ernment, and to revive those feudal institutions which unit- 


178 


TALES or MY LANDLORD. 


ed the vassal to the liege lord, and both to the-orown. Fre- 
quent musters and assemblies of the people, both for mil- 
itary exercise and for sports and pastimes, were appointed 
by authority. The interference, in the latter case was 
impolitic, to say the least ; for, as usual on such occa- 
sions, the consciences which were at first only scrupulous, 
became confirmed in their opinions instead of giving way 
to the terrors of authority ; and the youth of both sexes, 
to whom the pipe and tabour in England, or the bagpipe 
in Scotland, would have been in themselves an irresistible 
temptation, were enabled to set them at defiance, from 
the proud consciousness that they were, at the same time, 
resisting an act of council. To compel men to dance 
and be merry by authority, has rarely succeeded, even on 
board of slave-ships, where it was formerly sometimes at- 
tempted by way of inducing the wretched captives to 
agitate their limbs and restore the circulation, during the 
few minutes they were permitted to enjoy the fresh air 
upon deck. The rigour of the strict Calvinists increased 
in proportion to the wishes of the government that it should 
be relaxed. A Judaical observance of the Sabbath — a 
supercilious condemnation of all manly pastimes and harm- 
less recreations, as well as of the profane custom of pro- 
miscuous dancing, that is, of men and women dancing to- 
gether in the same party, (for I believe they admitted that 
the exercise might be inoffensive if practised by the par- 
ties separately) — distinguished those who professed a 
more than ordinary share of sanctity. They discouraged, 
as far as lay in their power, even the ancient wappen^ 
ichaws, as they were termed, when the feudal array of the 
county was called out, and each crown- vassal was requir- 
ed to appear with such muster of men and armour as he 
was bound to make by his fief, and that under high stat- 
utory penalties. The Covenanters were the more jealous 
of those assemblies, as the lord lieutenants and sheriffs 
under whom they were held had instructions from the 
government to spare no pains which might render them 
agreeable to the young men who were thus summoned 
together, upon whom the military exercise of the morn 


OLD MORTALITY. 


179 


mg, and the sports which usually closed the evening, might 
naturally be supposed to have a seductive effect. 

The preachers and proselytes of the more rigid pres- 
byterians laboured, therefore, by caution, remonstrance, 
and authority, to diminish the attendance upon these sum- 
monses, conscious that in doing so they lessened not only 
the apparent, but the actual strength of the government, 
by impeding the .extension of that esprit de corps which 
soon unites young men who are in the habit of meeting 
together for manly sport, or military exercise. They, there- 
fore, exerted themselves earnestly to prevent attendance 
on these occasions by those who could find any possible 
excuse for absence, and were especially severe upon 
such of their hearers as mere curiosity led to be spec- 
tators, or love of exercise to be partakers, of the ar- 
ray and the sports which took place. Such of the gentry 
as acceded to these doctrines were not always, however, 
in a situation to be ruled by them. The commands of 
the law' were imperative ; and the privy council, who ad- 
ministered the executive power in Scotland,* were severe 
in enforcing the statutory penalties against the crown-vas- 
sals who did not appear at the periodical wappen-schaw. 
The landholders were compelled, therefore, to send their 
sons, tenants, and vassals to the rendezvous, to the num- 
ber of horses, men, and spears, at which they were rated ; 
and it frequently happened, that, notwithstanding the strict 
charge of their elders to return as soon as the formal 
inspection was over, the young men-at-arms were unable 
to resist the temptation of sharing in the sports which 
succeeded the muster, or to avoid listening to the prayers 
read in the churches on these occasions, and thus, in the 
opinion of their repining parents, meddling with the ac- 
cursed thing which is an abomination in the sight of the 
Lord. 

The sheriff of the county of Lanark was holding the 
wappen-schaw of a wild district, called the Upper Ward 
of Clydesdale, on a haugh, or level plain, near to a 
royal borough, the name of w^hich is no way essential 
to my story, on the morning of the 5th of May, 


k80 


TALES OF MV LANDLORD 


1679, when our narrative commences. When the musters 
had been made, and duly reported, the young men, as was 
usual, were to mix in various sports, of which the chief 
w'as to shoot at the popinjay,^ an ancient game formerly 
practised with archery, but at this period with fire-arms. 
This was the figure of a bird, decked with party-colourea 
feathers, so as to resemble a popinjay, or parrot. It was 
suspended to a pole, and served for a mark, at which the 
competitors discharged their fusees and carabines in ro- 
tation, at the distance of sixty or seventy paces. He 
whose ball brought down the mark, held the proud title 
of Captain of the Popinjay for the remainder of the day, 
and w'as usually escorted in triumph to the most reputable 
change-house in the neighbourhood, where the evening 
was closed with conviviality, conducted under his auspices, 
and, if he was able to sustain it, at his expense. 

It will, of course, be supposed, that the ladies of the 
country assembled to witness this gallant strife, those ex- 
cepted who held the stricter tenets of puritanism, and 
would therefore have deemed it criminal to afford counte- 
nance to the profane gambols of the malignants. Landaus, 
barouches, or tilburies, there were none in those simple 
days. The lord lieutenant of the county (a personage 
of ducal rank) alone pretended to the magnificence of a 
wheel-carriage, a 'thing covered with tarnished gilding and 
sculpture, in shape like the vulgar picture of Noah’s ark, 
dragged by eight long-tailed Flanders mares, bearing eight 
insides and six outsides. The insides were their Graces 
in person, two maids of honour, two children, a chaplain 
stuffed into a sort of lateral recess, formed by a projec- 
tion at the door of the vehicle, and called, from its ap- 
pearance, the boot, and an equery to his Grace ensconced 
in the corresponding convenience on the opposite side. 
A coachman and three postilions, wdio wore short swords, 
and tie-wigs with three tails, had blunderbusses slung be- 
hind them, and pistols at their saddle-bow, conducted the 
equipage. On the footboard, behind this moving mansion- 
house, stood, or rather hung, in triple file, six lacquies, 
in rich liveries, armed up to the teeth. The rest ol the 
gentry, men and women, old and young, were on horse- 


OLD MORTALITY. 


181 


back, followed by their servants ; but the company, for 
the reasons already assigned, was rather select than nu- 
merous. 

Near to the enormous leathern vehicle which we have 
attempted to describe, vindicating her title to precedence 
over the untitled gentry of the country, might be seen the 
sober palfrey of Lady Margaret Bellenden, bearing the 
erect and primitive form of Lady Margaret herself, deck- 
ed in those widow’s weeds which the good lady had never 
laid aside since the execution of her husband for his ad- 
herence to Montrose. 

Her grand-daughter, and only earthly care, the fair- 
haired Edith, who was generally allowed to be the pret- 
tiest lass in the Upper Ward, appeared beside her aged 
relative like Spring placed close to Winter. Her black 
Spanish jennet, which she managed with much grace, her 
gay riding-dress, and laced side-saddle, had been anxious- 
ly prepared to set her forth to the best advantage. But 
the clustering profusion of ringlets, which, escaping from 
under her cap, were only confined by a green riband 
from wantoning over her shoulders ; her cast of features, 
soft and feminine, yet not without a certain expression of 
playful archness, which redeemed their sweetness from 
the charge of insipidity, sometimes brought against blondes 
and blue-eyed beauties, — these attracted more admiration 
from the western youth than either the splendour of her 
equipments or the figure of her palfrey. 

The attendance of these distinguished ladies w^as rather 
inferior to their birth and fashion in those times, as it con- 
sisted only of two servants on horseback. The truth w^as, 
that the good old lady had been obliged to make all her 
domestic servants turn out to complete the quota which 
her barony ought to furnish for the muster, and in which 
she would not for the universe have been found deficient. 
The old steward, who, in steel cap and jack-boots, led 
forth her array, had, as he said, sweated blood and water 
in his efforts to overcome the scruples and evasions of the 
16 VOL. I. 


182 


TALES OE MY LANDLORD. 


moorland farmers who ought to have furnished men, horse, 
and harness on these occasions. 

At last, their dispute came near to an open declaration 
of hostilities, the incensed episcopalian bestowing on the 
recusants the whole thunders of the commination, and re- 
ceiving from them, in return, the denunciations of a Cal- 
vinistic excommunication. What was to be done 9 To 
punish the refractory tenants would have been easy 
enough. The privy council would readily have imposed 
fines, and sent a troop of horse to collect them. But this 
would have been calling the huntsman and hounds into 
the garden to kill the hare. 

“ For,” said Harrison to himself, “ the carles have 
little eneugh gear at ony rate, and if I call in the red- 
coats and take away what little they have, how is my wor- 
shipful lady to get her rents paid at Candlemas, which 
is but a difficult matter to bring round even in the best of 
times 9” 

So he armed the fowler, and falconer, the footman and 
the ploughman, at the home farm, with an old drunken 
cavaliering butler, who had served with the late Sir Rich- 
ard under Montrose, and stunned the family nightly with 
his exploits at KilsytheandT^ppermoor, and who was the 
only man in the party that had the smallest zeal for the 
work in hand. In this manner, and by recruiting one or 
two latitudinarian poachers and black-fishers, Mr. Harri- 
son completed the quota of men which fell to the share 
of Lady Margaret Bellenden, as life-rentrix of the barony 
of Tillietudlem and others. But when the steward, on 
the morning of the eventful day, had mustered his troupe 
doree before the iron gate of the tower, the mother of Cud- 
die Headrigg the ploughman appeared, loaded with the 
jack-boots, buff coat, and other accoutrements which had 
been issued forth for the service of the day, and laid them 
before the steward ; demurely assuring him, that “ wheth- 
er it were the colic, or a qualm of conscience, she couldna 
tak upon her to decide, but sure it was, Cuddie had been 
in sair straits a’ night, and she couldna say he was muckle 
better this morning. The finger of Heaven,” she said. 


oLU MORTAHTY. 


183 


“was in it, and her bairn should gang on nae sic errands.” 
Pains, penalties, and threats of dismission were denoun- 
ced in vain ; the mother was obstinate, and Cuddie, whc 
underwent a domiciliary visitation, for the purpose of veri- 
fying his state of body, could, or would, answer only by 
deep groans. Mause, who had been an ancient domestic 
in the family, was a sort of favourite with Lady Margaret, 
and presumed accordingly. Lady Margaret had herself 
set forth, and her authority could not be appealed to. In 
this dilemma, the good genius of the old butler suggested 
an expedient. 

“ He had seen mony a braw callant, far less than Guse 
Gibbie, fight brawly under Montrose. What for no take 
Guse Gibbie 

This was a half-witted lad, of very small stature, who 
had a kind of charge of the poultry under the old hen- 
wife ; for in a Scottish family of that day, there was a 
wonderful substitution of labour. This urchin being sent 
for from the stubble-field, was hastily rnufiled in the buff 
coat, and girded rather to tlian with the sword of a full- 
grown man, his little legs plunged into jack-boots, and a 
steel cap put upon his head, which seemed, from its size, as 
if it had been intended to extinguish him. Thus accoutred, 
he was hoisted, at his own earnest request, upon the quietest 
horse of the party ; and, prompted and supported by old 
Gudyill the butler, as his front file, he passed muster tol- 
erably enough ; the sheriff not caring to examine too 
closely the recruits of so well-affected a person as Lady 
Margaret Bellenden. 

To the above cause it was owing that the personal ret- 
inue of Lady Margaret, on this eventful day, amounted 
only to two lacqueys, with which diminished train she 
would, on any other occasion, have been much asham- 
ed to appear in public. But, for the cause of royalty, 
she was ready at any time to have made the most unre- 
served personal sacrifices. She had lost her husband and 
two promising sons in the civil wars of that unhappy pe- 
riod ; but she had received her reward, for, on his route 
through the west of Scotland to meet Cromwell in tha 


184 


1‘ALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


unfortunate field of Worcester, Charles the Second had 
actually breakfasted at the tower of Tillietudlem, an in- 
cident which formed, from that moment, an important aera 
in the life of Lady Margaret, who seldom afterwards par- 
took of that meal, either at home or abroad, without de- 
tailing the whole circumstances of the royal visit, not for- 
getting the salutation which his majesty conferred on each 
side of her face, though she sometimes omitted to notice 
that he bestowed the same favour on two buxom serving- 
wenches who appeared at her back, elevated for the day 
into the capacity of waiting gentlewomen. 

These instances of royal favour were decisive ; and if 
Lady Margaret had not been a confirmed royalist already, 
^rom sense of high birth, influence of education, and ha- 
tred to the opposite party, through whom she had suffer- 
ed such domestic calamity, the having given a breakfast 
to majesty, and received the royal salute in return, were 
honours enough of themselves to unite her exclusively to 
the fortunes of the Stuarts. These were now, in all ap- 
pearance, triumphant ; but Lady Margaret’s zeal had 
adhered to them through the worst of times, and was 
ready to sustain the same severities of fortune should their 
scale once more kick the beam. At present she enjoyed, 
in full extent, the military display of the force which stood 
ready to support the crown, and stifled, as well as she 
could, the mortification she felt at the unworthy desertion 
of her own retainers. 

Many civilities passed between her ladyship and the 
representatives of sundry ancient loyal families who were 
upon the ground, by whom she was held in high rever- 
ence ; and not a young man of rank passed by them in the 
course of the muster but he carried his body more erect 
in the saddle, and thr&w his horse upon his haunches, to 
display his own horsemanship and the perfect bitting ot 
his steed to the best advantage in the eyes of Miss Edith 
Bellenden. But the young cavaliers, distinguished by 
high descent and undoubted loyalty, attracted no more at- 
tention from Edith than the laws of courtesy peremptoril}^ 
demanded ; and she turned an indifferent ear to the com 


OLD MORTALITY. 


185 


pliments with which she was addressed, most of which 
were little the worse for the wear, though borrowed for the 
nonce from the laborious and long-winded romances of 
Calprenede and Scuderi, the mirrors in which the youth 
of that age delighted to dress themselves, ere Folly had 
thrown her ballast overboard, and cut down her vessels of 
the first-rate, such as the romances of Cyrus, Cleopatra, 
and others, into small craft, drawing as little water, or, to 
speak more plainly, consuming as little time as the little 
cock-boat in which the gentle reader has deigned to em- 
bark. It was, however, the decree of fate, that Miss Bel- 
lenden should not continue to evince the same equanimity 
till the conclusion of the day. 


CHAPTER III. 

Horseman and horse confessed the bitter pang, 

And arms and warrior fell with heavy clang. 

Pleasures of Hope. 

When the military evolutions had been gone through 
tolerably well, allowing for the awkwardness of men and 
of horses, a loud shout announced that the competitors 
were about to step forth for the game of the popinjay 
already described. The mast, or pole, having a yard 
extended across it, from which the mark was displayed, 
was raised amid the acclamations of the assembly ; and 
even those who had eyed the evolutions of the feudal 
militia with a sort of malignant and sarcastic sneer, from 
disinclination to the royal cause in which they were pro- 
fessedly embodied, could not refrain from taking consider- 
able interest in the strife which was- now approaching. 
They crowded towards the goal, and criticised the ap- 
pearance of each competitor, as they advanced in suc- 
cession, discharged their pieces at the mark, and had their 
16 * VOL. I. 


IB6 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


good or bad address rewarded by the laughter or ap- 
plause of the spectators. But when a slender young 
man, dressed with great simplicity, yet not without a 
certain air of pretension to elegance and gentility, ap- 
proached the station with his fusee in his hand, his dark- 
green cloak thrown back over his shoulder, his laced ruff 
and feathered cap, indicating a superior rank to the vul- 
gar, there was a murmur of interest among the spectators, 
whether altogether favourable to the young adventurer, it 
was difficult to discover. 

“ Ewhow, sirs, to see his father’s son at the like o’ thae 
fearless follies !” was the ejaculation of the elder and 
more rigid puritans, whose curiosity had so far overcome 
their bigotry as to bring them to the play-ground. But 
the generality viewed the strife less morosely, and were 
contented to wish success to the son of a deceased Pres- 
byterian leader, without strictly examining the propriety 
of his being a competitor for the prize. 

Their wishes were gratified. At the first discharge of 
his piece the green adventurer struck the popinjay, being 
the first palpable hit of the day, though several balls had 
passed very near the mark. A loud shout of applause 
ensued. But the success was not decisive, it being ne- 
cessary that each wffio followed should have his chance, 
and that those who succeeded in hitting the mark should 
renew the strife among themselves, till one displayed a 
decided superiority over the others. Two only of those 
who followed in order succeeded in hitting the popinjay. 
The first was a young man of low rank, heavily built, 
and who kept his face muffled in his grey cloak ; the 
second a gallant young cavalier, remarkable for a hand- 
some exterior, sedulously decorated for the day. He had 
been since the muster in close attendance on Lady Mar- 
garet and Miss Bellenden, and had ieft them with an air 
of indifference, when Lady Margaret had asked whether 
there was no young man of family and loyal principles 
who would dispute the prize with the two lads who had 
been successful. In half a minute, young Lord Evan- 
dale threw himself from his horse, borrowed a gun from 


OLD MORTALITY. 


187 


a servant, and, as we have already noticed, hit the mark. 
Great was the interest excited by the renewal of the con- 
test between the three candidates who had been hitherto 
successful. The state equipage of the Duke was, with 
some difficulty, put in motion, and approached more near 
to the scene of action. The riders, both male and fe- 
male, turned their horses’ heads in the same direction, 
and all eyes were bent upon the issue of the trial of skill. 

It was the etiquette in the second contest that the com- 
petitors should take their turn of firing after drawing lots. 
The first fell upon the young plebeian, who, as he took 
his stand, half-uncloaked his rustic countenance, and said 
to the gallant in green, “Ye see, Mr. Henry, if it were 
ony other day, I could hae wished to miss for your sake ; 
but Jenny Dennison is looking at us, sae I maun do my 
best.” 

He took his aim, and his bullet whistled past the mark 
so nearly, that the pendulous object at which it was di- 
rected was seen to shiver. Still, however, he had not 
hit it, and, with a downcast look, he withdrew himself 
from further competition, and hastened to disappear from 
the assembly, as if fearful of being recognized. The 
green chasseur next advanced, and his ball, a second 
time, struck the popinjay. All shouted ; and from the 
outskirts of the assembly arose a cry of “ The good old 
cause for ever !” 

While the dignitaries bent their brows at these exulting 
shouts of the disaffected, the young Lord Evandale ad- 
vanced again to the hazard, and again was successful. 
The shouts and congratulations of the well-affected and 
aristocratical part of the audience attended his success, 
but still a subsequent trial of skill remained. 

The green marksman, as if determined to bring the 
affiiir to a decision, took his horse from a person who held 
him, having previously looked carefully to the security of 
his girths and the fitting of his saddle, vaulted on his back, 
and motioning with his hand for the by-standers to make 
way, set spurs, passed the place from which he was to 
fire at a gallop, and, as he passed, threw up the reins, 


188 


TAIiES OF MY lANDLORD. 


turned side-ways upon his saddle, discharged his cara- 
bine, and brought down the popinjay. Lord Evandale 
imitated his example, although many around him said it 
was an innovation on the established practice, which he 
was not obliged to follow. But his skill was not so per- 
fect, or his horse was not so well trained. The animal 
swerved at the moment his master fired, and the ball 
missed the popinjay. Those who had been surprised by 
the address of the green marksman, were now equally 
p]eas,ed by his courtesy. He disclaimed all merit from 
the last shot, and proposed to his antagonist that it should 
not be counted as a hit, and that they should renew the 
contest on foot. 

“ 1 would prefer horseback if I had a horse as well 
bitted, and, probably, as well broken to the exercise as 
yours,” said the young lord, addressing his antagonist. 

“ Will you do me the honour to use him for the next 
trial, on condition you will lend me yours 7” said the 
young gentleman. 

Lord Evandale was ashamed to accept this courtesy, 
as conscious how much it would diminish the value of 
victory ; and yet unable to suppress his wish to redetjm 
his reputation as a marksman, he added, “ that although 
he renounced all pretensions to the honour of the day,” 
(which he said somewhat scornfully,) “ yet, if the victor 
had no particular objection, he would willingly embrace 
his obliging offer, and change horses with him for the 
purpose of trying a shot for love.” 

As he said so, he looked boldly towards Miss Bellen- 
den, and tradition says, that the eyes of the young tirail- 
leur travelled, though more covertly, in the same direc- 
tion The young lord’s last trial was as unsuccessful as 
the former, and it was with difficulty that he preserved 
the tone of scornful indifference which he had hitherto 
assumed. But, conscious of the ridicule which attache? 
itself to the resentment of a losing parly, he returned to 
his antagonist the horse on which he had made his last 
unsuccessful attempt, and received back his own ; giving, 
at the same time, thanks to his competitor, who, he said, 


OLD MORTALITY. 


?89 


had re-established his favourite horse in his good opinion, 
for he had been in great danger of transferring to. the 
poor nag the blame of an inferiority, which every one, 
as well as himself, must now be satisfied remained with 
the rider. Having made this speech in a tone in which 
mortification assumed the veil of indifference, he mount- 
ed his horse a^id rode off the ground. 

As is the usual way of the world, the applause and at- 
tention even of those whose wishes had favoured Lord 
Evandale, were, upon his decisive discomfiture, trans- 
ferred to his triumphant rival. 

“ Who is he what is his name ran from mouth 
to mouth among the gentry who were present, to few of 
whom he was personally known. His style and title hav- 
ing soon transpired, and being within that class whom a 
great man might notice without derogation, four of the 
Duke’s friends, with the obedient start which poor Mal- 
volio ascribes to his imaginary retinue, made out to lead 
the victor to his presence. As they conducted him in 
triumph through the crowd of spectators, and stunned 
him at the same time with their compliments on his suc- 
cess, he chanced to pass, or rather to be led, immediate- 
ly in front of Lady Margaret and her grand-daughter 
The Captain of the popinjay and Miss Bellenden colour- 
ed like crimson, as the latter returned with embarrassed 
courtesy, the low inclination which the victor made, even 
to the saddle-bow, in passing her. 

“ Do you know that young person said Lady Mar- 
garet. 

“ I — I — have seen him. Madam, at my uncle’s, and — 
and elsewhere occasionally,” stammered Miss Edith 
Bellenden. 

“ I hear them say around me,” said Lady Margaret, 

‘ that the young spark is the nephew of old Milnwood.” 

“ The son of the late Colonel Morton of Milnwood, 
who commanded a regiment of horse with great courage 
at Dunbar and Inverkeithing,” said a gentleman who sat 
on horseback beside Lady Margaret. 

Ay, and who, before that, fought for the Covenanter? 


l90 TALES or MY LANDLORD. 

00 th at Marston-Moor and Philiphaugh,” said Lady 
Margaret, sighing as she pronounced the last fatal words, 
which her husband’s death gave her such sad reason to 
remember. 

“ Your ladyship’s memory is just,” said the gentleman, 
smiling, “ but it were well all that were forgot now.” 

“ He ought to remember it, Gilbertscleugh,” returned 
Lady Margaret, “ and dispense with intruding himself 
mto the company of those to whom his name must bring 
unpleasing recollections.” 

“ You forget, my dear lady,” said her nomenclator, 

that the young gentleman comes here to discharge suit 
and service in name of his uncle. I would every estate 
in the country sent out as pretty a fellow.” 

“ His uncle, as well as his umquhile father, is a round- 
head, I presume,” said Lady Margaret. 

“ He is an old miser,” said Gilbertscleugh, “ with 
whom a broad piece would at any time weigh down po- 
litical opinions, and, therefore, although probably some- 
what against the grain, he sends the young gentleman to 
attend the muster to save pecuniary pains and penalties. 
As for the rest, I suppose the youngster is happy enough 
to escape here for a day from the dulness of the old house 
at Milnwood, where he sees nobody but his hypochon- 
driac uncle and the favourite housekeeper.” 

“ Do you know how many men and horse the lands of 
Milnwood are rated at ?” said the old lady, continuing 
her inquiry. 

“ Two horsemen with complete harness,” answered 
Gilbertscleugh. 

“ Our land,” said Lady Margaret, drawing herself up 
with dignity, “ has always furnished to the muster eight 
men, cousin Gilbertscleugh, and often a voluntary aid oi 
thrice the number. 1 remember his sacred Majesty King 
Charles, when he took his disjune at Tillietudlem, was 
particular in inquiring” 

“ I see the Duke’s carriage in motion,” said Gilberts- 
cleugh, partaking at the moment an alarm common to all 
Lady Margaret’s friends, when she touched upon the 


OLD MORTALITY. 


191 


topic of the royal visit at the family mansion, — “ I see 
the Duke’s carriage in motion ; I presume your ladyship 
will take your right of rank in leaving the field. May I 
be permitted to convoy your ladyship and Miss Bellenden 
home — Parties of the wild whigs have been abroad, 
and are said to insult and disarm the well-affected who 
travel in small numbers.” 

“ We thank you, cousin Gilbertscleugh,” said Lady 
jRIargaret ; “ but, as we shall have the escort of ray own 
})eople, I trust we have less need than others to be trou- 
blesome to our friends. Will you have the goodness to 
order Harrison to bring up our people somewhat more 
briskly he rides them towards us as if he were leading 
a funeral procession.” 

The gentleman in attendance communicated his lady’s 
orders to the trusty steward. 

Honest Harrison had his own reasons for doubting the 
prudence of this command ; but, once issued and receiv- 
ed, there was a necessity for obeying it. He set off, 
therefore, at a hand-gallop, followed by the butler, in such 
a military attitude as became one who had served under 
Montrose, and with a look of defiance rendered sterner 
and fiercer by the inspiring fumes of a gill of brandy, 
which he had snatched a moment to bolt to the King’s 
health, and confusion to the Covenant, during the intervals 
of military duty. Unhappily this potent refreshment 
wiped away from the tablets of his memory the necessity 
of paying some attention to the distresses and difficulties 
of his rear file. Goose Gibbie. No sooner had the hor- 
ses struck a canter, than Gibbie’s jack-boots, which the 
poor boy’s legs were incapable of steadying, began to 
play alternately against the horse’s flanks, and, being 
armed with long-rowelled spurs, overcame the patience of 
the animal, which bounced and plunged, while poor Gib- 
bie’s entreaties for aid never reached the ears of the too 
heedless butler, being drowned partly in the concave of 
the steel cap in which his head was immersed, and partly 
in the martial tune of the Gallant Graemes, which Mr 
Gudyill whistled with all his power of lungs. 


192 


TALES OF x\lY LANDLORD. 


The upshot was, that the steed speedily took the mat- 
ter into his own hands, and, having gambolled hither and 
thither to the great amusement of all spectators, set off at 
full speed towards the huge family-coach already describ- 
ed. Gibbie’s pike, escaping from its sling, had fallen to 
a level direction across his hands, which, I grieve to say, 
were seeking dishonourable safety in as strong a grasp oi 
the mane as their muscles could manage. His casque, 
too, had sli})ped completely over his face, so that he saw 
as little in front as he did in rear. Indeed, if he 
could, it would have availed him little in the circumstan- 
ces ; for his horse, as if in league with the disaffected, ran 
full tilt towards the solemn equipage of the Duke, which 
the projecting lance threatened to perforate from window 
to window, at the risk of transfixing as many in its pas- 
sage as the celebrated thrust of Orlando, which, accord- 
ing to the Italian epic poet, broached as many Moors as 
a Frenchman spits frogs. 

On beholding the bent of this misdirected career, a 
panic shout of mingled terror and wrath was set up by 
the whole equipage, insides and outsides at once, which 
had the happy effect of averting the threatened misfor- 
tune. The capricious horse of Goose Gibbie was terri- 
fied by the noise, and, stumbling as he turned short round, 
kicked and plunged violently as soon as he recovered. 
The jack-boots, the original cause of the disaster, main- 
taining the reputation they had acquired when worn by 
better cavaliers, answered every plunge by a fresh prick 
of the spurs, and, by their ponderous weight, kept their 
place in the stirrups. Not so Goose Gibbie, who was 
fairly spurned out of those wide and ponderous greaves, 
and precipitated over the horse’s head, to the infinite 
amusement of all the spectators. His lance and helmet 
had forsaken him in his fall, and, for the completion of his 
disgrace. Lady Margaret Bellenden, not perfectly aware 
that it was one of her warriors who was furnishing so 
much entertainment, came up in time to see her diminu- 
tive man-at-arms stripped of his lion’s hide,— oftke buff- 
coat, that is, in which he was muffled. 


OLD MORTAMTY. 


193 


As she had not been made acquainted with this meta- 
morphosis, and could not even guess its cause, her sur- 
prise and resentment wefre extreme, nor were they much 
modified by the excuses and explanations of her steward 
and butler. She made a hasty retreat homeward, ex- 
tremely indignant at the shouts and laughter of the com- 
pany, and much disposed to vent her disnleasure on the 
refractory agriculturist whose place Goos^Gibbie had so 
unhappily supplied. The greater part of the gentry now 
dispersed, the whimsical misfortune which had befallen 
the gens d’armerie of Tillietudlem furnishing them with 
huge entertainment on their road homeward. The horse- 
men, also, in little parties, as their road lay together, di- 
verged from the place of rendezvous, excepting such as, 
having tried their dexterity at the popinjay, were, by 
ancient custom, obliged to partake of a grace-cup with 
their captain before their departure. 


CHAPTER IV. 

At fairs he play'd before the spearmen, 

And gaily graithed in their gear then, 

Steel bonnets, pikes, and swords shone clear then 
As ony bead ; 

Now wha sail play before sic wier men. 

Since Habbie'sdeud * 

Elegy m Hahbie SimpnoTi, 

The cavalcade of horsemen on their road to the little 
borough-toWn were preceded by Niel Blane, the town- 
piper, mounted on his white galloway, armed with his 
dirk and broad-sword, and bearing a chanter streaming 
with as many ribbons as would deck out six country 
belles for a fair or preaching. Niel, a clean, tight, well- 
limbered, long-winded fellow, had gained the official sit- 
17 VOL. 1. 


194 


TALKS or MY LANDLORD. 


uation of town-piper of by his merit, with all the 

emoluments thereof ; namely, the Piper’s Croft, as it is 
still called, a field of about an acre in extent, five merks 
and a new livery-coat of the town’s colours, yearly ; 
some hopes of a dollar upon the day of the election of 
magistrates, providing the provost were able and willing 
to afford such ^ gratuity ; and the privilege of paying, at 
all the respectable houses in the neighbourhood, an annual 
visit at spring-time, to rejoice their hearts with his music, 
to comfort his own with their ale and brandy, and to beg 
from each a modicum of seed-corn. 

In addition to these inestimable advantages, Niel’s per- 
sonal, or professional, accomplishments won the heart of 
a jolly widow, who then kept the principal change-house 
in the borough. Her former husband having been a 
strict presbyterian, of such note that he usually went 
among his sect by the name of Gaius the publican, many 
of the more rigid were scandalized by the profession of 
the successor whom his relict had chosen for a second 
help-mate. As the hrowst (or brewing) of the Howff 
retained, nevertheless, its unrivalled reputation, most of 
the old customers continued to give it a preference. The 
character of the new landlord, indeed, was of that ac- 
commodating kind, which enabled him, by close attention 
to the helm, to keep his little vessel pretty steady amid 
the contending tides of faction. He was a good-humour- 
ed, shrewd, selfish sort of fellow, indifferent alike to the 
disputes about church and state, and only anxious to se- 
cure the good-will of customers of every description. 
But his character, as well as the slate of the country, 
will be best understood by giving the reader an account 
of the instructions which he issued to his daughter, a girl 
about eighteen, whom he was initiating in those cares 
which had been faithfully discharged by his wife, until 
about six months before our story commences, when the 
honest woman had been carried to the kirk-yard. 

“ Jenny,” said Niel Blane, as the girl assisted to dis- 
encumber him of his bagpipes, “ this is the first day 
that ye are to take the place of your worthy mother in 


OLD MORTALITY. 


195 


attending to the public ; a douce woman she was, civil to 
the customers, and had a good name wi’Whig and Tory, 
baith up the street and down the street. It will be hard 
for you to fill her place, especially on sic a thrang day as 
this, but Heaven’s will maun be obeyed. — Jenny, what- 
ever Milnwood ca’s for be sure he maun hae’t, for he’s 
the Captain o’ the Popinjay, and auld customs maun be 
supported ; if he canna pay the lawing himsell, as I ken 
he’s keepit unco short by the head. I’ll find a way to 
shame it out o’ his uncle. — The curate is playing at dice 
wi’ Cornet Grahame. Be eident and civil to them baith 
r — clergy and captains can gie an unco deal o’ fash in thae 
times, where they take an ill-will. — The dragoons will be 
crying for ale, and they wunna want it, and maunna want 
it — they are unruly chields, but they pay ane some gate 
or other. I gat the humle-cow, that’s the best in the 
byre, frae black Frank Inglis and Sergeant Bothwell, for 
ten pund Scots, and they drank out the price at ae down- 
sitting.” 

‘‘ But, father,” interrupted Jenny, “ they say the twa 
reiving loons drave the cow frae the gudewife o’ Bell’s- 
moor, just because she gaed to hear a field-preaching ae 
Sabbath afternoon.” 

“ Whisht ! ye silly taupie,” said her father, “ we have’ 
riaething to do how they come by the bestial they sell — 
be that atween them and their consciences. — Aweel — 
Take notice, Jenny, of that dour, stour-looking carle that 
sits by the cheek o’ the ingle, and turns his back on a’ 
men. He looks like ane o’ the hill-folk, for I saw him 
start awee when he saw the red-coats, and I jalouse he 
wad hae liked to hae ridden by, but his horse (it’s a gude 
gelding) was ower sair travailed ; he behoved to stop 
whether he wad or no. Serve him cannily, Jenny, and 
wi’ little din, and dinna bring the sodgers on him by 
speering ony questions at him ; but let na him hae a room 
to himsell,they wad say we were hiding him. — For your- 
sell, Jenny, ye’ll be civil to a’ the folk, and take nae heed 
o’ ony nonsense and daffing the young lads may say t’ye. 
Folk in the hostler line maun pit up wi’ muckle. Your 


196 


TALES OF MT LANDLORD. 


mither, rest her saul, could pit up wi’ as niuckle as maist 
vvomen~but afF hands is fair play ; and if ony body be 
uncivil ye may gie me a cry — Aweel, — when the malt 
begins to get aboon the meal, they’ll begin to speak about 
government in kirk and state, and then, Jenny, they are 
like to quarrel — let them be doing — anger’s a drouthy 
passion, and the mair they dispute, the mair ale they’ll 
drink ; but ye were best serve them wi’ a pint of the sma 
browst, it will heat them less, and they’ll never ken the 
difference.” 

But, father,” said Jenny, “ if they come to lounder 
ilk ither as they did last time, suldna I cry on you 9” 

“ At no hand, Jenny ; the redder gets aye the warst 
lick in the fray. If the sodgers draw their swords, ye’ll 
cry on the corporal and the guard. If the country folk 
tak the tangs and poker, ye’ll cry on the baillie and town- 
officers. But in nae event cry on me, for I am wearied 
wi’ doudling the bag o’ wind a’ day, and I am gaun to 
eat my dinner quietly in the spence. — And, now I think 
on’t, the Laird of Lickitup (that’s him that was the laird) 
was speering for sma’ drink and a saut herring — gie him 
a pu’ be the sleeve, and round into his lug I wad be blithe 
o’ his company to dine wi’ me ; he was a gude customer 
anes in a day, and wants naething but means to be a gude 
ane again — he likes drink as weel as e’er he did. And it 
ye ken ony puir body o’ our acquaintance that’s blate for 
want o’ siller, and has far to gang hame, ye needna 
stick to gie them a waught o’ drink and a bannock — we’ll 
ne’er raiss’t, and it looks creditable in a house like ours. 
And now, hinny, gang awa’, and serve the folk, but first 
bring me my dinner, and twa chappins o’ yill and the 
mutchkin stoup o’ brandy.” 

Having thus devolved his whole cares on Jenny as prime 
minister, Niel Blane and the ci-devant laird, once his 
patron, but now glad to be his trencher-companion, sat 
down to enjoy themselves for the remainder of the even- 
ing, remote from the bustle of the public room. 

All in Jenny’s department was in full activity. The 
knights of the popinjay received and reiiuited the hospj 


OLD MORTALITY. 


197 


table entertainment of their captain, who, though he spared 
the cup himself, took care it should go round with due ce- 
lerity among the rest, who might not have otherwise deem- 
ed themselves handsomely treated. Their numbers melted 
away by degrees, and were at length diminished to four or 
five, who began to talk of breaking up their party. At 
another table, at some distance, sat two of the dragoons 
whom Niel Blane had mentioned, a sergeant and a private 
in the celebrated John Grahame of Claverhouse’s regiment 
of Life-Guards. Even the non-commissioned officers and 
privates in these corps were not considered as ordinary 
mercenaries, but rather approached to the rank of the 
French mousquetaires, being regarded in the light of 
cadets, who performed the duties of rank-and-file with 
the prospect of obtaining commissions in case of distin- • 
guishing themselves. 

Many young men of good families were to be found in 
the ranks, a circumstance which added to the pride and 
self-consequence of these troops. A remarkable instance 
of this occurred in the person of the non-commissioned 
officer in question. His real name was Francis Stuart, but 
he was universally known by the appellation of Bothwell 
being lineally descended from the last Earl of that name ; 
not the infamous lover of the unfortunate Queen Mary, 
but Francis Stuart, Earl of Bothwell, whose turbulence 
and repeated conspiracies embarrassed the early part of 
James Sixth’s reign, and who at length died in exile in 
great poverty. The son of this Earl had sued to Charles 
I. for the restitution of part of his father’s forfeited es- 
tates, but the grasp of the nobles to whom they had been 
allotted was too tenacious to be unclenched. The break- 
ing out of the civil wars utterly ruined him, by intercept- 
ing a small pension which Charles I. had allowed him, 
and he died in the utmost indigence. His son, after 
having served as a soldier abroad and in Britain, and 
passed through several vicissitudes of fortune, was fain to 
content himself with the situation of a non-commissioned 
officer in the Life-Guards, although lineally descended 
from the royal family, the father of the forfeited Earl o 
17 * VOL. I. 


98 TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 

Bothwell having been a natural son of James VI.^ Great 
personal strength, and dexterity in the use of his arms, 
as well as the remarkable circumstances of his descent, 
had recommended this man to the attention of his offi- 
cers. But he partook in a great degree of the licen- 
tiousness and oppressive disposition, which the habit of 
acting as agents for government in levying fines, exacting 
free quarters, and otherwise oppressing the Presbyterian 
recusants, had rendered too general among these soldiers. 
They were so much accustomed to such missions, that 
they conceived themselves at liberty to commit all man- 
ner of license with impunity, as if totally exempted from 
all law and authority, excepting the command of their 
officers. On such occasions Bothwell was usually the 
most forward. 

It is probable that Bothwell and his companions would 
not so long have remained quiet, but for respect to the 
presence of their cornet, who commanded the small 
party quartered in the borough, and who was engaged in 
a game at dice with the curate of the place. But both 
of these being suddenly called from their amusement to 
speak with the chief magistrate upon some urgent busi- 
ness, Bothwell was not long of evincing his contempt for 
the rest of the company. 

“ Is it not a strange thing, Halliday,” he said to his 
comrade, “ to see a set of bumpkins sit carousing here 
this whole evening, without having drank the King’s 
health T’ 

“ They have drank the King’s health,” said Halliday. 
“ I heard that green kail-worm of a lad name his Majes- 
ty’s health.” 

“ Did he T’ said Bothwell. “ Then, Tom, we’ll 
have them drink the Archbishop of St. Andrew’s health, 
and do it on their knees too.” 

“ So we will, by G- — ,” said Halliday, “ and he that 
refuses it, we’ll have him to the guard-house, and teach 
him to ride the colt foaled of an acorn, with a brace of 
carabines at each foot to keep him steady.” 


OLD MORTALITY. 


199 


“ Right, Tom,” continued Bothwell ; ‘‘ and, to do all 
things in order, I’ll begin with that sulky blue-bonnet in 
the ingle-nook.” 

He rose accordingly, and 'taking his sheathed broad- 
sword under his arm to support the insolence which he 
meditated, placed himself in front of the stranger noticed 
by Niel Blane, in- his admonitions to his daughter, as be- 
ing, in all probability, one of the hill-folk, or refractory 
presbyterians. 

“ 1 make so bold as to request of your precision, be- 
loved,” said the trooper in a tone of affected solemnity, 
and assuming the snuffle of a country preacher, “ that 
you will arise from your seat, beloved, and, having bent 
your hams until your knees do rest upon the floor, belov- 
ed, that you will turn over this measure (called by the 
profane a gill) of the comfortable creature, which the 
carnal denominate brandy, to the health and glorification 
of his Grace the Archbishop of St. Andrews, the wor- 
thy primate of all Scotland.” 

All waited for the stranger’s answer. — His features, 
austere even to ferocity, with a cast of eye which, with- 
out being actually oblique, approached nearly to a squint, 
and which gave a very sinister expression to his counte- 
nance, joined to a frame, square, strong, and muscular, 
though something under the middle size, seemed to an- 
nounce a man unlikely to understand rude jesting, or to 
receive insults with impunity. 

‘‘ And what is the consequence,” said he, “ if I should 
not be disposed to comply with your uncivil request 9” 

“ The consequence thereof, beloved,” said Bothwell, 
in the same tone of raillery, “ will be, firstly, that I will 
twe.ak thy proboscis, or nose. Secondly, beloved, that I 
will administer my fist to thy distorted visual optics ; and 
will conclude, beloved, with a practical application of the 
flat of my sword to the shoulders of the recusant.” 

“ Is it even so ?” said the stranger ; “ then give me the 
cup and, taking it in his hand, he said, with a peculiar 
expression of voice and manner, “ the Archbishop of 
St. Andrews, and the place he now worthily holds ; — 


200 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


may each prelate in Scotland soon be as the Right Rev 
erend James Sharpe !” 

“ He has taken the test,” said Halliday, exultingly. 

“ But with a qualification,” said Bothwell ; “ 1 don’t 
understand what the devil the crop-eared whig means.” 

“ Come, gentlemen,” said Morton, “ who became 
impatient of their insolence, ‘‘ we are here met as good 
subjects, and on a merry occasion ; and we have a right 
to expect we shall not be troubled with this sort of dis- 
cussion.” 

Bothwell was about to make a surly answer, but Hal- 
liday reminded him in a whisper, that there were strict 
injunctions that the soldiers should give no offence to the 
men who were sent out to the musters agreeably to the 
council’s orders. So, after honouring Morton with a 
broad and fierce stare, he said, “ Well, Mr. Popinjay, I 
shall not disturb your reign ; I reckon it will be out by 
twelve at night. — Is it not an odd thing, Halliday,” he 
continued, addressing his companion, “ that they should 
make such a fuss about cracking off their birding-pieces 
at a mark which any woman or boy could hit at a day’s 
practice ^ If Captain Popinjay now, or any of his troop, 
would try a bout, either with the broad-sword, back- 
sword, single rapier, or rapier and dagger, for a gold 
noble, the first-drawn blood, there would be some soul in 
it — or, zounds, would the bumpkins but wrestle, or pitch 
the bar, or putt the stone, or throw the axle-tree, if (touch- 
ing the end of Morton’s sword scornfully with his toe,) they 
carry things about them that they are afraid to draw.” 

Morton’s patience and prudence now gave way entire- 
ly, and he was about to make a very angry answer to 
Bothwell’s insolent observations, when the stranger step- 
ped forward. 

“ This is my quarrel,” he said,* “ and in the name oi 
the good cause, 1 will see it out myself. — Hark thee, 
friend, (to Bothwell,) wilt thou wrestle a fall with me ?” 

“ With my whole spirit, beloved,” answered Both- 
well ; “ yea I will strive with thee, to the downfall of 
one or both.” 


OLD MORTALITY 


201 


‘‘ Then, as my trust is in Him that can help,” retort- 
ed his antagonist, “ I will forthwith make thee an exam- 
ple to all such railing Rabshakehs.” 

With that he dropped his coarse grey horseman’s coat 
from his shoulders, and extending his strong brawny arms 
with a look of determined resolution, he offered himself 
to the contest. The soldier was nothing abashed by the 
muscular frame, broad chest, square shoulders, and hardy 
ook of his antagonist, but, whistling with great compo- 
sure, unbuckled his belt, and laid aside his military coat 
The company stood around them anxious for the event. 

In the first struggle, the trooper seemed to have some 
advantage, and also in the second, though neither could 
be considered as decisive. But it was plain he had put 
his whole strength too suddenly forth, against an antago- 
nist possessed of great endurance, skill, vigour, and 
length of wind. In the third close, the countryman lifted 
his opponent fairly from the floor, and hurled him to the 
ground with such violence, that he lay for an instant stun- 
ned and motionless. His comrade, Halliday, immediate- 
ly drew his sword ; “ You have killed my sergeant,” he 
exclaimed to the victorious wrestler, “ and by all that is 
sacred you shall answer it!” 

“ Stand back !” cried Morton and his companions, 
“ it was all fair play ; your comrade sought a fall, and 
he has got it.” 

“ That is true enough,” said Bothwell as he slowly 
rose ; “ put up your bilbo, Tom, 1 did not think there 
was a crop-ear of them all could have laid the best cap 
and feather in the King’s Life-Guards on the floor, of a 
rascally change-house. — Hark ye, friend, give me your 
hand.” The stranger held out his hand. “ I promise 
you,” said Bothwell, squeezing his hand very hard, 
“ that the time will come when we shall meet again, and 
try this game over in a more earnest manner.” 

And I’ll promise you,” said the stranger, returning 
the grasp with equal firmness, “ that, when we next meet, 

I will lay your head as low as it lay even now, when you 
Bhall lack the power to lift it up again.” 


202 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


“ Well, beloved,” answered Bothwell, “if thou be^sl 
a whig, thou art a stout and a brave one, and so good 
even to thee — Had’st best take thy nag before the cornet 
makes the round, for, J promise thee, he has stay’d less 
suspicious-looking persons.” 

The stranger seemed to think that the hint was not to 
be neglected ; he flung down his reckoning, and, going 
into the stable, saddled and brought out a powerful black 
horse, now recruited by rest and forage, and turning to 
Morton, observed, “ I ride towards Milnwood, which I 
hear is your home ; wdll you give me the advantage and 
protection of your company 

“ Certainly,” said Morton, although there was some- 
thing of gloomy and relentless severity in the man’s man- 
ner from which his mind recoiled. His companions, after 
a courteous good-night, broke up and went off in differ- 
ent directions, some keeping them company for about a 
mile, until they dropped off one by one, and the travel- 
lers were left alone. 

The company had not long left the Howff, as Blane’s 
public-house was called, when the trumpets and kettle- 
drums sounded. The troopers got under arms in the 
market-place at this unexpected summons, while, with 
faces of anxiety and earnestness. Cornel Grahame, a 
kinsman of Claverhouse, and the provost of the borough, 
followed by half-a-dozen soldiers, and town-officers with 
halberts, entered the apartment of Niel Blane. 

“ Guard the doors !” were the first words which the 
Cornet spoke ; “ let no man leave the house. — So, Both- 
well, how comes this ? Did you not hear them sound boot 
and saddle 

“ He was just going to quarters, sir,” said his com- 
rade ; “ he has had a bad fall.” 

“ In a fray, I suppose ?” said Grahame. “ If you 
neglect duty in this way, your royal blood will hardly 
protect you.” 

“ How have I neglected duty .J*” said Bothwell, sulkily 

“You should have been at quarters, Sergeant Bothwell,’ 
replied the officer ; “ you have lost a golden opportunity 


OLD MORTALITY. 


203 


Here are news come that the Archbishop of St. Andrews- 
has been strangely and foully assassinated by a body of the 
rebel whigs, who pursued and stopped his carriage on Ma- 
gus-Muir, near the town of St. Andrews, dragged him out, 
and despatched him with their swords and daggers.”^ 

All stood aghast at the intelligence. 

“ Here are their descriptions,” continued the Cornet, 
pulling out a proclamation, “ the reward of a thousand 
merks is on each of their heads.” 

“ The test, the test, and the qualification !” said Both- 
well to Halliday ; “ I know the meaning now — Zounds 
that we should not have stopt him ! Go saddle our hor- 
ses, Halliday. — Was there one of the men. Cornet, very 
stout and square-made, double-chested, thin in the flanks, 
hawk-nosed 9” 

“ Stay, stay,” said Cornet Grahame, “ let me look at 
the paper. — Haxton of Rathillet, tall, thin, black-hair- 
ed.” 

“ That is not my man,” said Bothwell. 

“ John Balfour, called Burley, aquiline nose, red- 
haired, five feet eight inches in height” * 

“ It is he — it is the very man !” said Bothwell, — 
“ skellies fearfully with one eye T’ 

“ Right,” continued Grahame ; “ rode a strong black 
horse taken from the primate at the time of the murder.” 

‘‘ The very man,” exclaimed Bothwell, “ and the 
very horse ! he was in this room not a quarter of an hour 
since.” 

A few hasty inquiries tended still more to confirm the 
opinion, that the reserved and stern stranger was Balfour 
of Burley, the actual commander of the band of assas- 
sins, who, in the fury of misguided zeal, had murderea 
the primate, whom they accidentally met, as they were 
searching for another person against whom they bore 
enmity.'^ In their excited imagination the casual rencoun- 
ter had the appearance of a providential interference, 
and they put to death the Archbishop, with circumstan- 
ces of great and cold-blooded cruelty, under the belief, 


204 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


that the Lord, as they expressed it, had delivered him 
into their hands.^ 

“ Horse, horse, and pursue, my lads !” exclaimed 
Cornet Grahame “ the murdering dog’s head is worth 
its weight in gold.” 


CHAPTER V. 

Arouse thee, youth ! — it is no human call — 

God’s church is leaguered — haste to man the wall ; 

Haste where the Redcross banners wave on high, 

Signal of honoured death, or victory ! 

James Duff. 

Morton and his companion had attained some distance 
from the town before either of them addressed the other. 
There was something, as we have observed, repulsive in 
the manner of the stranger, which prevented Morton from 
opening the conversation, and he himself seemed to have 
no desire to talk, until, on a sudden, he abruptly demand- 
ed, “ What has your father’s son to do with such profane 
mummeries as I find you this day engaged in 

“ I do my duty as a subject, and pursue rny harmless 
recreations according to my own pleasure,” replied Mor- 
ton, somewhat offended. 

“ Is It your duty, think you, or that of any Christian 
young man, to bear arms in their cause who have poured 
out the blood of God’s saints in the wilderness as if it 
had been water or is it a lawful recreation to waste 
time in shooting at a bunch of feathers, and close your 
evening with wine-bibbing in public-houses and market- 
towns, when He that is mighty is come into the land with 
his fan in his hand, to purge the wheat from the chaff 
“ I suppose from your style of conversation,” said 
Morton, “ that you are one of those who have thought 


OLD MORTALITY. 


205 


proper to stand out against the government. I must re- 
mind you that you are unnecessarily using dangerous 
language in the presence of a mere stranger, and that the 
times do not render it safe for me to listen to it.” 

“ Thou canst not help it, Henry Morton,” said his 
companion ; “ thy master has his uses for thee, and when 
he calls thou must obey. Well wot I thou hast not heard 
the call of a true preacher, or thou hadst ere now been 
what thou wilt assuredly one day become.” 

We are of the presbyterian persuasion, like yourself,” 
said Morton ; for his uncle’s family attended the ministry of 
one of those numerous presbyterian clergymen, who, com- 
plying with certain regulations, were licensed to preach 
without interruption from the government. This indul- 
gence as it was called, made a great schism among the 
Presbyterians, and those who accepted of it were severely 
censure^ by the more rigid sectaries, who refused the 
proffered terms. The stranger, therefore, answered with 
great disdain to Morton’s profession of faith. 

“ That is but an equivocation — a poor equivocation. 
Ye listen on the Sabbath, to a cold, worldly, time-serving 
discourse, from one who forgets his high commission so 
much as to hold his apostleship by the favour of the 
courtiers and the false prelates, and ye call that hearing 
the word ! Of all the baits with w^hich the devil has fished 
for souls in these days of blood and darkness, that Black 
Indulgence has been the most destructive. An awful 
dispensation it has been, a smiting of the shepherd and a 
scattering of the sheep upon the mountains — an uplifting 
of one Christian banner against another, and a fighting 
of the wars of darkness with the swords of the children 
of light!” 

‘‘ My uncle,” said Morton, “ is of opinion, that we 
enjoy a reasonable freedom of conscience under the in- 
dulged clergyman, and I must necessarily be guided by 
his sentiments respecting the choice of a place of worship 
for his family.” 

18 VOL I, 


206 


TAXES OF MT LANDLORD. 


“ Your uncle,” said the horseman, “ is one of those 
to whom the least lamb in his own folds at Milnwood is 
dearer than the whole Christian, flock. He is one that 
could willingly bend down to the golden-calf of Bethel, 
and would have fished for the dust thereof when it was 
ground to powder and cast upon the waters. Thy father 
was a man of another stamp.” 

“ My father,” replied Morton, “ was indeed a brave 
and gallant man. And you may have heard, sir, that he 
fought for that royal family in whose name I was this day 
carrying arms.” 

“ Ay ; and had he lived to see these days, he would 
have cursed the hour he ever drew sword in their cause. 
But more of this hereafter — I promise thee full surely 
that thy hour will come, and then the words thou hast 
now heard will stick in thy bosom like barbed arrows. 
My road lies there. 

He pointed towards a pass leading up into a wild extent 
of dreary and desolate hills ; but as he was about to turn 
his horse’s head into the rugged path, which led from the 
high-road in that direction, an old woman, wrapped in a 
red cloak, who was sitting by the cross-way, arose, and 
approaching him, said, in a mysterious tone of voice, 
“ If ye be of our ain folk, gang na up the pass the night for 
your lives. There is a lion in the path, that is there. The 
curate of Brotherstane and ten soldiers hae beset the 
pass, to hae the lives of ony of ourpuirwanderers that ven- 
ture that gate to join wi’ Hamilton and Dingwall.” 

“ Have the persecuted folk drawn to any head among 
themselves demanded the stranger. 

“ About sixty or seventy horse and foot,” said the old 
dame ; “ but, ewhow ! they are puirly armed, and warse 
fended wi’ victual.” 

“ God will help his own,” said the horseman. 

Which way shall I take to join them 

“ It’s a mere impossibility this night,” said the woman, 

the troopers keep sae strict a guard ; and they say 
there’s strange news come frae the east, that makes them 
rage in their cruelty mair fierce than ever — Ye maun 


OLD MORTALITY. 


207 


lake shelter somegate for the night before ye get to the 
muirs, and keep yoursell in hiding till the grey o’ the 
morning, and then you may find your way through the 
Drake Moss. When I heard the awfu’ threatenings o’ 
the oppressors, I e’en took my cloak about me, and sat 
down by the wayside, to warn ony of our puir scattered 
remnant that chanced to come this gate, before they fell 
into the nets of the spoilers.” 

“ Have you a house near this said the stranger ; 
“ and can you give me hiding there 9” 

“ I have,” said the old woman, ‘‘ a hut by the way- 
side, it may be a mile from hence ; but four men of 
Belial, called, dragoons, are lodged therein, to spoil my 
household goods at their pleasure, because I will not wait 
upon the thowless, thriftless, fissenless ministry of that 
carnal man, John Half-text, the curate.” 

“ Good night, good woman, and thanks for thy coun- 
sel,” said the stranger, as he rode away. 

“ The blessings of the promise upon you,” returned 
the old dame ; “ may He keep you that can keep you.” 

“ Amen !” said the traveller ; “ for where to hide my 
head this night, mortal skill cannot direct me.” 

“ I am very sorry for your distress,” said Morton ; 
“ and had I a house or place of shelter that could be 
called my own, I almost think I would risk the utmost 
rigour of the law rather than leave you in such a strait. 
But my uncle is so alarmed at the pains and penalties 
denounced by the laws against such as Comfort, receive, 
or consort with intercommuned persons, that he has 
strictly forbidden all of us to hold any intercourse with 
them.” 

“ It is no less than I expected,” said the stranger ; 

nevertheless, I might be received without his know- 
ledge ; — a barn, a hay-loft, a cart-shed, — any place 
where I could stretch me down, would be to my habits 
like a tabernacle 6f silver set about with planks of cedar.” 

. “ I assure you,” said Morton, much embarrassed, 

‘ that I have not the means of receiving you at Miln- 
wood without my uncle’s consent and knowledge ; nor, if 


208 


TAIiTiS OF MY LANDLORD. 


I could do SO, would I think myself justifiable in engage 
ing him unconsciously in a danger, which, most of all 
others, he fears and deprecates.” 

‘‘ Well,” said the traveller, “ I have but one word to 
say. Did you ever hear your father mention John 
Balfour of Burley 

“ His ancient friend and comrade, who saved his life, 
with almost the loss of his own, in the battle of Long- 
marston-Moor — Often, very often.” 

“ I am that Balfour,” said his companion. “ Yonder 
stands thy uncle’s house ; I see the light among the trees. 
The avenger of blood is behind me, and my death cer- 
tain unless I have refuge there. Now, make thy choice, 
young man ; to shrink from the side of thy father’s friend, 
life a thief in the night, and to leave him exposed to the 
bloody death from which he rescued thy father, or to ex- 
pose thine uncle’s worldly goods to such peril, as, in this 
perverse generation, attends those who give a morsel of 
bread or a draught of cold water to a Christian man, when 
perishing for lack of refreshment !” 

A thousand recollections thronged on the mind of 
Morton at once. His father, whose memory he idolized, 
had often enlarged upon his obligations to this man, and 
regretted, that, after having been long comrades, they had 
parted in some unkindness at the time when the kingdom 
of Scotland was divided into Resolutioners and Pro- 
testers ; the former of whom adhered to Charles II. after 
his father’s death upon the scaffold, w’hile the Protesters 
inclined rather to a union with the triumphant republicans. 
The stern fanaticism of Burley had attached him to this 
latter party, and the comrades had parted in displeasure, 
never, as it happened, to meet again. These circum- 
stances the deceased Colonel Morton' had often mention- 
pd to his son, and always with an expression of deep 
regret, that he had never, in any manner, been enabled 
to repay the assistance, which, on more than one occasion, 
he had received from Burley. 

To hasten Morton’s decision, the night-wind, as it 
swept along, brought from a distance, the sullen sound of 


OLD MORTALITY. 


209 


a kettle-drum, which, seeming to approach nearer, inti- 
mated that a body of horse were upon their march 
towards them. 

“ It must be Claverhouse, with the rest of his regi- 
ment. What can have occasioned this night-march 9 If 
you go on, you fall into their hands — if you turn back 
towards the borough-town, you are in no less danger 
from Cornet Grahame’s party. — The path to the hill is 
beset. I must shelter you at Milnwood, or expose you 
^ to instant death ; — but the punishment of the law -shall 
fall upon myself, as in justice it should, not upon my 
uncle. — Follow me.” 

Burley, who had awaited his resolution with great 
composure, now followed him in silence. 

The house of Milnwood, built by the father of the 
present proprietor, was a decent m*ision, suitable to the 
size of the estate, but, since the accession of this owner, 
it had been suffered to go considerably into disrepair. 
At some little distance from the house stood the court of 
offices. Here Morton paused. 

“ I must leave you here for a little while,” he whisper- 
ed, “ until I can provide a bed for you in the house.” 

“ I care little for such delicacy,” said Burley ; “ for 
thirty years this head has rested oftener on the turf, or on 
the next grey stone, than upon either wool or down. A 
draught of ale, a morsel of bread, to say my prayers, and 
to stretch me upon dry hay, were to me as good as a 
painted chamber and a prince’s table.” 

It occurred to Morton at the same moment, that to at- 
tempt to introduce the fugitive within the house, would 
materially increase the danger of detection. According- 
ly, having struck a light with implements left in the stable 
for that purpose, and having fastened up their horses, ho 
assigned Burley, for his place of repose, a wooden bed, 
placed in a loft half-full of hay, which an out-of-door do- 
mestic had occupied until dismissed by his uncle in one 
of those fits of parsimony which became more rigid from 
day to day. In this untenanted loft Morton left his com. 

18 * VOL. I. 


210 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


panion, with a caution so to shade his light that no reflec- 
tion might be seen from the window, and a promise that 
he would presently return with such refreshments as he 
might be able to procure at that late hour. This last 
indeed, was a subject on which he felt by no means con- 
fident, for the power of obtaining even the most ordinary 
provisions depended entirely upon the humour in which 
he might happen to find his uncle’s sole confidant, the 
old housekeeper. If she chanced to be a-bed, which was 
very likely, or out of humour, which was not less so,^ 
Morton well knew the case to be at least problematical 

Cursing in his heart the sordid parsimony which per- 
vaded every part of his uncle’s establishment, he gave the 
usual gentle knock at the bolted door, by which he was 
accustomed to seek admittance, when accident had de- 
tained him abroad b^ond the early and established hours 
of rest at the house of Milnwood. It was a sort of hesi- 
tating tap, which carried an acknowledgment of transgres- 
sion in its very sound, and seemed rather to solicit than 
command attention. After it had been repeated again 
and again, the housekeeper, grumbling betwixt her teeth 
as she rose from the chimney corner in the hall, and wrap- 
ping her checked handkerchief round her head to secure 
her from the cold air, paced across the stone-passage, and 
repeated a careful “ Wha’s there at this time o’ night 
more than once before she undid the bolts and bars, and 
cautiously opened the door. 

“ This is a fine time o’ night, .Mr. Henry,” said the old 
dame, with the tyrannic insolence of a spoilt and favourite 
domestic ; — “ a braw time o’ night and a bonnie, to dis- 
turb a peaceful house in, and to keep quiet folk out o’ 
their beds waiting for you. Your uncle’s been in his 
maist three hours syne, and Robin’s ill o’ the rheumalize, 
and he’s to his bed too, and sae I had to sit up for ye 
mysell,for as sair a hoast as I hae.” 

Here she coughed once or twice, in further evidence of 
the egregious inconvenience which she had sustained. 

‘‘ Much obliged to you, Alison, and many kind thanks.” 


OLD MORTALITY. 


211 


“ Hegh, sirs, sae fair-fashioned as we are ! Mony folk 
ca’ me Mistress Wilson, a,^id Milnwood himsellis the only 
ane about this town that thinks o’ ca’ing me Alison, and 
indeed he as aften says Mistress Alison as ony other thing.” 

“ Well, then. Mistress Alison,” said Morton, “ I really 
am sorry to have kept you up waiting till I came in.” 

“ And now, that you are come in, Mr. Henry,” said the 
cross old woman, “ what for do ye no tak up your candle 
and gang to your bed } and mind ye dinna let the candle 
sweal as ye gang alang the wainscot parlour, and hand a’ 
* the house scouring to get out the grease again.” 

“ But, Alison, I really must have something to eat, and 
a draught of ale, before I go to bed.” 

“ Eat 9 — and ale, Mr. Henry 9 — My certie, ye’re ill 
to serve ! Do ye think we havena heard o’ your grand 
popinjay wark yonder and how ye bleezed away as muckle 
pouther as wad hae shot a’ the wild-fowl that we’ll want 
atween and Candlemas — and then ganging majoring to 
the piper’s HowfF wi’ a’ the idle loons in the country, and 
sitting there billing, at your poor uncle’s cost nae doubt, 
wi’ a’ the scaff and raff o’ the water-side, till sun-down, 
and then coming hame and crying for ale, as if ye were 
maisterand mair !” 

Extremely vexed, yet anxious, on account of his guest, 
to procure refreshments if possible, Morton suppressed 
his resentment, and good-humouredly assured Mrs. Wilson 
that he was really both hungry and thirsty ; “ and as for 
the shooting at the popinjay, I have heard you say you 
have been there yourself, Mrs. Wilson — I. wish you had 
come to look at us.” 

“ Ah, Maister Henry,” said the old dame, “ I wish ye 
binna beginning to learn the way of blawing in a woman’s 
lug, wi’ a’ your whilly-wha’s ! — aweel, sae ye dinna prac- 
tise them but on auld wives like me, the less matter. But 
tak heed o’ the young queans, lad. — Popinjay — ye think 
voursella bra’ fellow enow ; and troth !” (surveying him 
with the candle) “ there’s nae fault to find wi’ the outside, 
if the inside be conforming. But I mind, when I was a 
gilpy ’ of a lassock, seeing the Duke, that was him that 


212 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


lost his head at London — folk said it wasna a very gude 
ane, but it was aye a sair loss.to him, puir gentlen an — 
Aweel, he wan the popinjay, for few cared to win it ower 
nis Grace’s head — weel, he had a comely presence, and 
wlien a’ the gentles mounted to show their capers, his 
Grace was as near to me as I am to you ; and he said to 
me, ‘ Tak tent o’ yoursell,my bonnie lassie, (these were 
his very words) for my horse is not very chancy.’ — And 
now, as ye say ye had sae little to eat or drink. I’ll let 
you see that I bavena been sae unmindfu’ o’ you, for I 
dinna think it’s safe for young folk to gang to their bed on 
an empty stamach.” 

To do Mrs. Wilson justice, her nocturnal harangues 
upon such occasions not unfrequently terminated with this 
sage apothegm, which always prefaced the producing of 
some provision a little better than ordinary, such as she 
now placed before him. In fact, the principal object of 
her maundering was to display her consequence and love 
of power; for Mrs. Wilson was not, at the bottom, an ill- 
tempered woman, and certainly loved her old and young 
master (both of whom she tormented extremely) belter 
than any one else in the world. She now eyed Mr. 
Henry, as she called him, with great complacency as he 
partook of her good cheer. 

“ Muckle gude may it do ye, my bonny man. I trow 
ye didna get sic a skirl-in-the-pan as that at Niel Blane’s. 
His wife was a canny body, and could dress things very 
weel for ane in her line o’ business, but no like a gentle- 
man’s housekeeper, to be sure. But 1 doubt the daugh- 
ter’s a silly thing — an unco cockernony she had busked 
on her head at the kirk last Sunday. 1 am doubting that 
diere will be news o’ a’ tbae braws. But my auld een’s 
drawing thegither — dinna hurry yoursell,my bonny man, 
tak mind about the putting out the candle, and there’s a 
horn of ale, and a glass of clow-gillieflower wat a- ; I dinna 
gie ilka body that ; I keep it for a pain 1 hae whiles in 
iny ain stamach, and it’s better for your young blude than 
brandy. Sae, gude-night to ye, Mr. Henry, and se.e that 
ye tak gude care o’ the candle.” 


OLD MORTALITY. 


213 


Morton promised to attend punctually to her caution, 
and requested her not to be alarmed if she heard the door 
opened, as she knew he must again, as usual, look to his 
horse, and arrange him for the night. Mrs. Wilson then 
retreated, and Morton, folding up his provisions, was about 
to hasten to his guest, when the nodding head of the old 
househeeper was again thrust in at the door, with an ad- 
monition, to remember to take an account of his ways 
before he laid himself down to rest, and to pray for pro- 
jection during the hours of darkness. Such were the 
manners of a certain class of domestics, once common in 
^Scotland, and perhaps still to be found in some old manor- 
houses in its remote counties. They were fixtures in the 
family they belonged to ; and as they never conceived 
the possibility of such a thing as dismissal to be within 
the chances of their lives, they were, of course, sincerely 
attached to every member of it.^ On the other hand, 
when spoiled by the indulgence or indolence of their su- 
periors, they were very apt to become ill-tempered, self- 
sufficient, and tyrannical ; so much so, that a mistress or 
master would sometimes almost have wished to exchange 
their cross-grained fidelity for the smooth and accomrno- 
dat ng duplicity of a modern menial. 


CHAPTER VI. 

N 

Yea, this man’s brow, like to a tragic leaf, 

Foretells the nature of a tragic volume. 

Sluxkspeare, 

Being at length rid of the housekeeper’s presence, 
Morton made a collection of what he had reserved from 
i.he provisions set before him, and prepared to carry them 
10 his concealed guest. He' did not think it necessary to 
take a light, being perfectly acquainted with every turn of 
the road ; and it was lucky he did not do so, for he had 
hardly stepped bevond the threshold ere a heavy tramp- 


214 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


ing of horses announced, that the body of cavalry, whose 
kettle-drums’^ they had before heard, were in the act of 
passing along the high-road which winds round the foot of 
the bank on which the house of Milnwood was placed. 
He heard the commanding officer distinctly give the word 
halt. A pause of silence followed, interrupted only by 
the occasional neighing or pawing of an impatient charger. 

“ Whose house is this said a voice in a tone of au- 
thority and command. 

“ Milnwood, if it like your honour,” was the reply. 

“ Is the owner well affected 9” said the inquirer. 

“ He complies with the orders of government, and fre- 
quents an indulged minister,” was the response. 

‘ “ Hum ! ay ! Indulged a mere mask for treason, 
very impolitically allowed to those who are too great cow- 
ards to wear their principles barefaced. — Had we not 
better send up a party and search the house, in case some 
of the bloody villains concerned in this heathenish butch- 
ery may be concealed in it V’ 

Ere Morton could recover from the alarm into which 
this proposal had thrown him, a third speaker rejoined, 
“ I cannot think it at all necessary ; Milnwood is an in- 
firm, hypochondriac old man, who never meddles with 
politics, and loves his money-bags and bonds better than 
anything else in the world. His nephew, I hear, was at 
the wappen-schaw to-day, and gained the popinjay, which 
does not look like a fanatic. I should think they are all 
gone to bed long since, and an alarm at this time of night 
might kill the poor old man.” 

“ Well,” rejoined the leader, “ if that be so, to search 
the house would be lost time, of which we have but little 
to throw away. Gentlemen of the Life-Guards, forward 
— March!” 

A few notes on the trumpet, mingled with the occasion- 
al boom of the kettle-drum, to mark the cadence, joined 
with the tramp of hoofs and the clash of arms announced 
that the troop had resumed its march. The moon broke 
)ui as the leading files of the column attained a hill up 
which the road winded, and showed indistins^tly the glit- 


OLD MORTALITY. 


215 


vftring of the steel-caps ; and the dark figures of the horses 
and riders might be imperfectly traced through the gloom. 
They continued to advance up the hill, and sweep over 
the top of it in such long succession, as intimated a con- 
siderable numerical force. 

When the last of them had disappeared, young Morton 
resumed his purpose of visiting his guest. IJpon entering 
the place of refuge, he found him seated on his humble 
couch with a pocket Bible open in his hand, which he 
seemed to study with intense meditation. His broad- 
sword, which he had unsheathed in the first alarm at the 
arrival of the dragoons, lay naked across his knees, and 
tl)e little taper that stood beside him upon the old chest, 
which served the purpose of a table, threw a partial and 
imperfect light upon those stern . and harsh features, in 
which ferocity was rendered more solemn and dignified 
by a wild cast of tragic enthusiasm. His brow was that 
of one in whom some strong o’er-rnastering principle has 
overwhelmed all other passions and feelings, like the swell 
of a high spring-tide, when the usual cliffs and breakers 
vanish from the eye, and their existence is only indicated 
by the chafing foam of the waves, that burst and wheel 
over them. He raised his head, after Morton had con- 
templated him for about a minute. 

“ I perceive,” said Morton, looking at his sword, “ that 
you heard the horsemen ride by ; their passage delayed 
me for some minutes.” 

“ 1 scarcely heeded them,” said Balfour ; “ my hour 
is not yet come. That I shall one day fall into their hands, 
and be honourably associated with the saints whom they 
have slaughtered, I am full well aware. And I would, 
young man, that the hour were come ; it should be as 
welcome to me as ever wedding to bridegroom. But if 
my Master has more work for me on earth, I must not do 
his labour grudgingly.” 

“ Eat and refresh yourself,” said Morton ; “ to-mor 
row your safety requires you should leave this place, in 
order to gain the hills, so soon as you can see to distin- 
guish the track through the morasses.*’ 


216 


TAXES OF MY XANDXORD. 


“ Young man,” returned Balfour, ‘‘ you are already 
weary of me, and would be yet more so, perchance, did 
you know the task upon which I have been lately put. 
And I wonder not that it should be so, for there are times 
when 1 am weary of myself. Think you not it is a sore 
trial for flesh and blood, to be called upon to execute tlie 
righteous judgments of Heaven while we are yet in the 
body, and continue to retain that blinded sense and sympa- 
<hy for carnal suffering which makes our own flesh thrill 
when we strike a gash upon the body of another ? And think 
you, that when some prime tyrant has been removed from 
his place, that the instruments of his punishment can at all 
times look back on their share in his downfall with firm 
and unshaken nerves ^ Must they not sometimes even 
i|uestion the truth of that inspiration which they have felt 
and acted under Must they not sometimes doubt the 
origin of that strong impulse with which their prayers for 
heavenly direction under difficulties have been inwardly 
answered and confirmed, and confuse, in their disturbed 
apprehensions, the responses of Truth itself with some 
strong delusion of the enemy 

“ These are subjects, Mr. Balfour, on which I am ill 
qualified to converse with you,” answered Morton ; “ but 
I own I should strongly doubt the origin of any inspira- 
tion which seemed to dictate a line of conduct contrary 
to those feelings of natural humanity, which Heaven has 
assigned to us as the general law of our conduct.” 

Balfour seemed somewhat disturbed, and drew himself 
hastily up, but immediately composed himself, and an- 
swered coolly, “ It is natural you should think so ; you 
are yet in the dungeon-house of the law, a pit darker than 
that into which Jeremiah was plunged, even the dungeon 
of Malchiah the son of Hamelech, where there was 
no water but mire. Yet is the seal of the covenant upon 
your forehead, and the son of the righteous, who resisted 
to blood where the banner was spread on the mountains, 
shall not be utterly lost as one of the children of darkness. 
Trow ye, that in this day of bitterness, and calamity. 


OLD MORTALITY. 


21 '? 

nothing is required at our hands but to keep the moral law 
as far as our carnal frailty wnll permit 9 Think ye our 
conquests must be only over our corrupt and evil affec- 
tions and p.assions No ; we are called upon when we 
have girded up our loins to run the race boldly, and when 
we have drawn the sword, we are enjoined to smite the 
ungodly, though he be our neighbour, and the man oi 
power and cruelty, though he were of our own kindred 
and the friend of our own bosom.” 

“ These are the sentiments,” said Morton, “ that your 
enemies impute to you, and which palliate, if they do not 
vindicate, the cruel measures w’hich the council have di- 
rected against you. They affirm, that you pretend to 
derive your rule of action, from what you call an inward 
light, rejecting the restraints of legal magistracy, of na- 
tional law, and even of common humanity, when in op 
position to what you call the spirit within you.” 

“ They do us wrong,” answered the Covenanter ; it 
is they, perjured as they are, who have rejected all law, 
both divine and civil, and who now persecute us for ad- 
herence to the Solemn League and Covenant between God 
and the kingdom of Scotland, to which all of them save 
a few popish malignants, have sworn in former days, ana 
which they now burn in the market-places, and tread un- 
der foot in derision. When this Charles Stuart returned 
to these kingdoms, did the malignants bring him back 
They had tried it with strong hand, but they failed, I trow 
Could James Grahame of Montrose and his Highland 
caterans have put him again in the place of his father ? I 
think their heads on the Westport told another tale for many 
a long day. It was the workers of the glorious work — the 
reformers of the beauty of the tabernacle, that called him 
again to the high place from which his father fell. And 
what has been our reward ? In the words of the prophet, 

‘ We looked for peace, but no good came ; and for a time 
of health, and behold trouble — The snorting of his horses 
was heard from Dan ; the whole land trembled at the 
sound of the neighing of his strong ones ; for they are 
come, and have devoured the land and all that is in it.’ ” 
19 VOL. I. 


218 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


“ Mr. Balfour,” answered Morton, “ I neither under- 
take to subscribe or to refute your complaints against the 
government. I have endeavoured to repay a debt due to 
the comrade of my father, by giving you shelter in your 
distress, but you will excuse me from engaging myself 
either in your cause, or in controversy. I will leave you to 
repose, and heartily wish it were in my power to render 
your condition more comfortable.” 

“ But I shall see you. I trust, in the morning, ere I de- 
part — I am not a man whose bowels yearn after kin- 
dred and friends of this world. When 1 put my hand to 
the plough, I entered into a covenant with my worldly af- 
fections that I should not look back on the things 1 left 
behind me. Yet the son of mine ancient comrade is to 
me as mine own, and I cannot behold him without the 
deep and firm belief, that I shall one day see him gird 
on his sword in the dear and precious cause for which his 
father fought and bled.” 

With a promise on Morton’s part that he would call the 
refugee when it was time for him to pursue his journey, 
they parted for the night. 

Morton retired to a few hours rest ; but his imagina- 
tioiT, disturbed by the events of the day, did not permit 
him to enjoy sound repose. There was a blended vision 
of horror before him in which his new friend seemed to 
be a principal actor. The fair form of Edith Bellenden 
also mingled in his dream, weeping, and with dishevelled 
hair, and appearing to call on him for comfort and assist- 
ance which he had not in his power to render. He awoke 
from these unrefreshing slumbers with a feverish impulse, 
and a heart which foreboded disaster. There was already 
a tinge of dazzling lustre on the verge of the distant hills, 
and the dawn was abroad in all the freshness of a summer 
morning. 

“ I have slept too long,” he exclaimed to himself, “ and 
must now hasten to forward the journey of this unfortu- 
nate fugitive.” 

He dressed himself as fast as possible, opened the door 
of the house wfith as little noise as he could, and hasten 


OLD MORTALITY. 


219 


ed to the place of refuge occupied by the Covenanter. 
Morton entered on tiptoe, for the determined tone and 
manner, as well as the unusual language and sentiments 
of this singular individual, had struck him with a sensa- 
tion approaching to awe. Balfour was still asleep. A 
ray of light streamed on his uncurtained couch, and show- 
ed to Morton the working of his harsh features, which 
seemed agitated by some strong internal cause of disturb- 
ance. He had not undressed. Both his arms were 
above the bed-cover, the right hand strongly clenched, 
and occasionally making that abortive attempt to strike, 
which usually attends dreams of violence ; the left was 
extended, and agitated, from time to time, by a move- 
ment as if repulsing some one. The perspiration stood 
on his brow, “ like bubbles in a late disturbed stream,” 
and these marks of emotion were accompanied with brok- 
en words which escaped from him at intervals — “ Thou 
art taken, Judas — thou art taken — Cling not to my knees 
— cling not to my knees — hew him down ! — A priest 
Ay, a priest of Baal to be bound and slain, even at the 
brook Kishon.r— Fire-arms will not prevail against him — 
Strike — thrust with the cold iron — put him out of pain — 
put him out of pain, were it but for the sake of his grey 
hairs.” 

Much alarmed at the import of these expressions, which 
seemed to burst from him even in sleep with the stern 
energy accompanying the perpetration of some act of 
violence, Morton shook his guest by the shoulder in order 
to awake him. The first words he uttered were, “ Bear 
me where ye will, T will avouch the deed!” 

His glance around having then fully awakened him, he 
at once assumed all the stern and gloomy composure ol 
his ordinary manner, and throwing himself on his knees 
before speaking to Morton, poured forth an ejaculatory 
prayer for the suffering Church of Scotland, entreating 
that the blood of her murdered saints and martyrs might 
be precious in the sight of Heaven, and that the shield of 
the Almighty might be spread over the scattered remnant, 
who, for His name’s sake, were abiders in the wilderness 


220 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


Vengeance — speedy and ample vengeance on the oppres* 
sors, was the concluding petition of his devotions, which 
he expressed aloud in strong and emphatic language, ren- 
dered more impressive by the orientalism of Scripture. 

When he had finished his prayer he arose, and taking 
Morton by the arm, they descended together to the stable, 
where the Wanderer, (to give Burley a title which w^as 
often conferred on his sect,) began to make his horse 
ready to pursue his journey. When the animal was sad- 
dled and bridled, Burley requested Morton to walk with 
him a gun-shot into the wood, and direct him to the right 
road for gaining the moors. Morton readily complied, 
and tliey walked for some time in silence under the shade 
of some fine old trees, pursuing a sort of natural path^ 
which, after passing through woodland for about half a 
mile, led into the bare and wild country which extends to 
the foot of the hills. 

There w^as little conversation between them, until at 
length Burley suddenly asked Morton, “Whether the words 
he had spoken over-night had borne fruit in his mind ?” 

Morton answered, “ That he remained of the same 
opinion which he had formerly held, and was determined, 
at least as far and as long as possible, to unite the duties 
of a good Christian with those of a peaceful subject.” 

“ In other words,*’ replied Burley, “ you are desirous 
to serve both God and Mammon — to be one day profess- 
ing the truth with your lips, and the next day in arms, at 
the command of carnal and tyrannic authority, to shed 
the blood of those who for the truth have forsaken all 
things 9 Think ye,” he continued, “ to touch pitch and 
remain un defiled 9 to mix in the ranks of malignants, 
papists, papa-prelatists, latitudinarians, and scoffers ; to 
partake of their sports, wdnch are like the meat offered 
unto idols ; to hold intercourse, perchance, with their 
daughters, as the sons of God with the daughters of men 
in the world before the flood — think you, I say, to do 
all these things, and yet remain free from pollution ? 
I say unto you, that all communication with the ene- 
mies of the Church is the accursed thing which God 
hateth ! Touch not taste not handle not ! And 


OliD MORTAIilTT. 


221 


grieve not, young man, as if you alone were called upon 
to subdue your carnal affections, and renounce the pleas- 
ures which are a snare to your feet — I say to you that 
the son of David hath denounced no better lot on the 
whole generation of mankind.” 

He then mounted his horse, and, turning to Morton, 
repeated the text of Scripture, “ An heavy yoke was or- 
dained for the sons of Adam from the day they go out ef 
their mother’s womb till the day they return to the mother 
of all things ; from him who is clothed in blue silk and 
weareth a crown, even to him who weareth simple linen, 
— wrath, envy, trouble, and unquietness, rigour, strife, 
and fear of death in the time of rest.” 

Having uttered these words he set his horse in motion, 
and soon disappeared among the boughs of the forest. 

“ Farewell, stern enthusiast,” said Morton, looking 
after him ; “ in some moods of my mind, how dangerous 
would be the society of such a companion ! If 1 am un- 
moved by his zeal for abstract doctrines of faith, or rather 
for a peculiar mode of worship, (such was the purport of 
his reflections,) can I be a man, and a Scotchman, and 
look with indifference on that persecution which has made 
wise men mad Was not the cause of freedom, civil and 
religious, that for which my father fought ; and shall 1 do 
well to remain inactive, or to take the part of an oppres- 
sive government, if there should appear any rational pros- 
pect of redressing the insufferable wrongs to which my 
miserable countrymen are subjected — And yet, who 
shall warrant me that these people, rendered wild by per- 
secution, would not in the hour of victory, be as cruel 
and as intolerant as those by whom they are now hunted 
down What degree of moderation, or of mercy, can be 
expected from this Burley, so distinguished as one of their 
principal champions, and who seems even now to be reek- 
ing from some recent deed of violence, and to feel stings 
of remorse, which even his enthusiasm cannot altogether 
stifle 9 I am weary of seeing nothing but violence and 
fury around me — now assuming the mask of lawful au- 
19* VOL. I. 


222 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


thority, now taking that of religious zeal. I am sick of 
my country — of myself — of my dependent situation — of 
my repressed feelings — of these woods — of that river — 
of that house — of all but — Edith, and she can never be 
mine 1 Why should J haunt her walks — Why encourage 
my own delusion and perhaps hers ^ — She can never be 
mine. Her grandmother’s pride — the opposite principles 
of our families — my wretched state of dependence — a 
ooor miserable slave, for I have not even the wages of a 
servant — all circumstances give the lie to the vain hope 
.hat we can ever be united. Why then protract a delu- 
aion so painful '? 

“ But I am no slave,” he said aloud, and drawing him- 
self up to his full stature — “ no slave, in one respect, 
surely. I can change my abode — my father’s sword is 
mine, and Europe lies open before me, as before him and 
hundreds besides of my countrymen who have filled it 
with the fame of their exploits. Perhaps some lucky 
chance may raise me to a rank with our Ruthvens, our 
Lesleys, our Munroes, the chosen leaders of the famous 
Protestant champion, Gustavus Adolphus, or, if not, a 
soldier’s life or a soldier’s grave.” 

When he had formed this determination, he found him- 
self near the door of his uncle’s house, and resolved to 
lose no time in making him acquainted with it. 

“ Another glance of Edith’s eye, another walk by Edith’s 
side, and my resolution would melt away. I will take an ir- 
revocable step, therefore, and then see her for the last time.’ 

In this mood he entered the wainscotted parlour in 
which his uncle was already placed at his morning’s re- 
freshment, a huge plate of oatmeal porridge, with a cor- 
responding allowance of butter-milk. The favourite 
housekeeper was in attendance, half standing, half resting 
on the back of a chair, in a posture betwixt freedom and 
respect. The old gentleman had been remarkably tall in 
his earlier days, an advantage which he now lost by stoop- 
ing to such a degree, that at a meeting, where there was 
some dispute concerning the sort of arch which should 
be thrown over a considerable brook, a facetious neigh- 


OLD MORTALITY. 


223 


hour proposed to offer Milnwood a handsome sum for his 
curved backbone, alleging that he would sell anything that 
belonged to him. Splay feet of unusual size, long thin 
hands, garnished with nails which seldom felt the steel, a 
wrinkled and puckered vjsage, the length of which cor- 
responded with that of his person, together with a pair of 
little sharp bargain-making grey eyes, that seemed eter- 
nally looking out for their advantage, completed the highly 
unpromising exterior of Mr. Morton of Milnwood. As it 
would have been very injudicious to have lodged a liberal 
or benevolent disposition in such an unw'orthy cabinet, 
nature had suited his person with a mind exactly in con- 
formity with it, that is to say, mean, selfish, and covetous. 

When this amiable personage was aware of the presence 
of his nephew, he hastened, before addressing him, to 
swallow the spoonful of porridge which he was in the act 
of conveying to his mouth, and, as it chanced to be scald- 
ing hot, the pain occasioned by its descent down his throat 
and into his stomach, inflamed the ill-humour with which 
he was already prepared to meet his kinsman. 

“ The deil take them, that made them!” was his first 
ejaculation, apostrophizing his mess of porridge. 

“ They’re gude parritch eneugh,” said Mrs. Wilson, 
“ if ye wad but take time to sup them. I made them 
mysell ; but if folk winna hae patience, they should get 
their thrapples causewayed.” 

“ Hand your peace, Alison ! I was speaking to my ne- 
voy. — How is this, sir 9 And what sort o’ scampering 
gates are these o’ going on 9 Ye were not at hame last 
night till near midnight. 

“ Thereabouts, sir, I believe,” answered Morton, in an 
indifferent tone. 

“ Thereabouts, sir 9 — What sort of an answer is that, 
sir 9 Why came ye na hame when other folk left the 
grund 9” 

“ I suppose you know the. reason very well, sir,” said 
Morton ; “ I had the fortune to be the best marksman ot 
the day, and remained, as is usual, to give some little 
entertainment to the other young men.” 


il24 TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 

“ The deevil ye did, sir ! And ye come to tell me tha 
to my face ? You pretend to gie entertainments, that 
canna come by a dinner except by sorning on a carefu 
man like me ? But if ye put me to charges, I’se work it 
out o’ ye. I seena why ye shouldna baud the pleugh, 
now that the pleughman has left us ; it wad set ye better 
than wearing thae green duds, and wasting your siller on 
powther and lead ; it wad put ye in an honest calling, 
and wad keep ye in bread without being behadden to 
ony ane.” 

I am very ambitious of learning such a calling, sir, 
but I don’t understand driving the plough.” 

“ And what for no It’s easier than your gunning and 
archery that ye like sae week Auld Davie is ca’ing it 
e’en now, and ye may be goadsman for the first twa or 
three days, and tak tent ye dinna o’er-drive the owsen, 
and then ye will be fit to gang between the stilts. Ye’ll 
ne’er learn younger, I’ll be your caution — Haggie-holm 
is heavy land, and Davie is ower auld to keep the coulter 
down now.” 

I beg pardon for interrupting you, sir, but I have form- 
ed a scheme for myself, which will have the same effect 
of relieving you of -the burden and charge attending my 
company.” 

‘‘ Ay ^ indeed 9 a scheme o’ yours ^ that must be a 
dainty ane !” said the uncle, with a very peculiar sneer ; 
“ let’s hear about it, lad.” 

“ It is said in two words, sir. I intend to leave this 
country, and serve abroad, as my father did before these 
unhappy troubles broke out at home. His name will not 
be so entirely forgotten in the countries where he served 
but that it will procure his son at least the opportunity of 
trying his fortune as a soldier.” 

“ Gude be gracious to us !” exclaimed the housekeep- 
er ; “ our young Mr. Harry gang abroad — na, na ! eh 
na ! that maun never be.” 

Milnwood entertaining no thought or purpose of parting 
with his nephew, who was, moreover, very useful to him 
in many respects, was thunderstruck at this abrupt de- 


OLD MORTALITY. 


225 


claration of independence from a person whose deference 
to him had hitherto been unlimited. He recovered him- 
self, however, immediately. 

“ And wha do you think is to give you the means, young 
man, for such a wild-goose chase Not I, I am sure. I 
can hardly support you at hame. And ye wad be mar- 
rying, I’se warrant, as your father did afore ye, too, and 
sending your uncle hame a pack o’ weans to be fighting 
and skirling through the house in my auld days, and to 
take wing and flee afF like yoursell, whenever they were 
asked to serve a turn about the town?” 

“ I have no thoughts of ever marrying,” answered 
Henry. 

“ Hear till him now !” said the housekeeper. — “ It’s 
a shame to hear a douce young lad speak in that way, 
since a’ the warld kens that they maun either marry or 
do waur.” 

“ Haud your peace, Alison,” said her master ; ‘‘ and 
you, Harry, (he added more mildly,) put this nonsense out 
o’ your head — this comes o’ letting ye gang a-sodgering for 
a day — mind ye hae nae siller, lad, for ony sic nonsense 
plans.” 

• “ I beg your pardon, sir, my wants shall be very few ; 
and would you please to give me the gold chain which 
the Margrave gave to my father after the battle of Lut- 
zen” 

“ Mercy on us ! the gowd chain 9” exclaimed his uncle. 

“ The chain of gowd !” re-eclioed the housekeeper, 
both aghast with astonishment at the audacity of the pro- 
posal. 

— “ I will keep a few links to remind me of him by 
whom it was won, and the place where he won it,” con- 
tinued Morton ; “ the rest shall furnish me the means of 
following the same career in which my father obtained 
that mark of distinction.” 

“ Mercifu’ powers !” exclaimed the governante, “ my 
master wears it every Sunday !” 

“ Sunday and Saturday,” added old Milnwood, “when- 
ever I put on my black velvet coat ; and Wylie Mactrickit 
is partly of opinion it’s a kind of heir-loom, that rather 


226 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


belangs to the head of the house than to the immediate 
descendant. It has three thousand links ; I have counted 
them a thousand times. It’s worth three hundred pounds 
sterling.” 

“ That is more than I want, sir ; if you choose to give 
me the third part of the money, and five links of the chain, 
it will amply serve my purpose, and the rest will be some 
slight atonement for the expense and trouble I have put 
you to.” 

“ The laddie’s in a creel !” exclaimed his uncle. “ O, 
sirs, what will become o’ the rigs o’ Milnwood when I am 
dead and gane ! He would fling the crown of Scotland 
awa’, if he had it.” 

“ Hout, sir,” said the old housekeeper, “ I maun e’en 
say it’s partly your ain faut. Ye maunna curb his head 
ower sair in neither ; and, to be sure, since he has gane 
down to the HowfF, ye maun just e’en pay the lawing.” 

“ If it be not abune twa dollars, Alison,” said the old 
gentleman, very reluctantly. 

“ I’ll settle it mysellwi’ Niel Blane, the first time I gang 
down to the clachan,” said Alison, “ cheaper than your 
honour or Mr. Harry can do and then whispered to 
Henry, “ dinna vex him ony mair. I’ll pay the lave out 
o’ the butter siller, and nae mair words about it.” Then 
proceeding aloud, “ And ye maunna speak o’ the young 
gentleman handing the pleugh ; there’s puir distressed 
whigs enow about the country will be glad to do that for 
a bite and a soup — it sets them far better than the like 
o’ him.” 

“ And then we’ll hae the dragoons on us,” said Miln- 
wood, “ for comforting and entertaining intercommuned 
rebels, a bonny strait ye wad put us in ! — But take your 
breakfast, Harry, and then lay by your new green coat, 
and put on your Raploch grey ; it’s a mair mensefu’ and 
thrifty dress, and a mair seemly sight, than thae dangling 
slops and ribands.” 

Morton left the room, perceiving plainly that he had at 
present no chance of gaining his purpose, and, perhaps, 
not altogether displeased at the obstacles which seemed 


OLD MORTALITY. 


227 


to present themselves to his leaving the neighbourhood of 
Tillietudlem. The housekeeper followed him into the 
next room, patting him on the back, and bidding him be 
a gude bairn, and pit by his braw things. 

“ And I’ll loop doun your hat, and lay by the band and 
riband,” said the officious dame ; “ and ye maun never, 
at no hand, speak o’ leaving the land, or of selling the 
gowd chain, for your uncle has an unco pleasure in look- 
ing on you, and in counting the links of the chainzie ; 
and ye ken auld folk canna last forever ; sae the chain 
and the lands, and a’ will be your ain ae day ; and ye 
may marry ony leddy in the country-side ye like, and 
keep a braw house at Milnwood, for there’s enow of 
means 5 and is not that worth waiting for, my dow 9” 

There was something in the latter part of the prognos- 
tic which sounded so agreeably in the ears of Morton, 
that he shook the old dame cordially by the hand, and 
assured her he was much obliged by her good advice, and 
would weigh it carefully before he proceeded to act upon 
his former resolution. 


CHAPTER VII. 

From seventeen years till now, almost fourscore, 

Here lived I, but now live here no more. 

At seventeen years many their fortunes seek, 

But at fourscore it is too late a week. 

As You Like It. 

We must conduct our readers to the Tower of Tillie- 
tudlem, to which Lady Margaret Bellenden had returned, 
in romantic phrase, maleconteiit and full of heaviness, 
at the unexpected, and, as she deemed it, indelible af- 
front, which had been brought upon her dignity by the 
public miscarriage of Goose Gibbie. That unfortunate 
man-at-arms was forthwith commanded to drive his feath 


228 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


ered charge to the most remote parts of the common 
moor, and on no account to awaken the grief or resent- 
ment of his lady, by appearing in her presence, while the 
sense of the affront was yet recent. 

The next proceeding of Lady Margaret was to hold a 
solemn court of justice, to which Harrison and the butler 
were admitted, partly on the footing of witnesses, partly 
as assessors, to inquire into the recusancy of Cuddie 
Headrigg the ploughman, and the abetment which he 
had received from his mother — these being regarded as 
the original causes of the disaster which had befallen the 
chivalry of Tillietudlem. The charge being fully made 
out and substantiated. Lady Margaret resolved to repri- 
mand the culprits in person, and, if she found them im- 
penitent, to extend the censure into a sentence of expul- 
sion from the barony. Miss Bellenden alone ventured to 
say anything in behalf of the accused, but her countenance 
did not profit them as it might have done on any other 
occasion. For so soon as Edith had heard it ascertained 
that the unfortunate cavalier had not suffered in his person, 
his disaster had affected her with an irresistible disposition 
to laugh, which, in spite of Lady Margaret’s indignation, 
or rather irritated, as usual, by restraint, had broke out 
repeatedly on her return homeward, until her grandmoth- 
er, in no shape imposed upon by the several fictitious 
causes which the young lady assigned for her ill-timed 
risibility, upbraided her in very bitter terms with being in- 
sensible to the honour of her family. Miss Bellenden’s 
intercession, therefore, had, on this occasion, little or no 
chance to be listened to. 

As if to evince the rigour of her disposition. Lady Mar- 
garet, on this solemn occasion, exchanged the ivory- 
headed cane with which she commonly walked, for an 
immense gold-headed staff which had belonged to her 
father, the deceased Earl of Torwood, and which, like a 
sort of mace of office, she only made use, of on oc- 
casions of special solemnity. Supported by this awful 
baton of command. Lady Margaret Bellenden entered the 
cottage of the delinquents. 


OI.D MORTALITY. 


229 


There was an air of consciousness about old Mause, as 
she rose from her wicker chair in the chimney-nook, not 
with the cordial alertness of visage which used, on other 
occasions, to express the honour she felt in the visit of her 
lady, but with a certain solemnity and embarrassment, like 
an accused party on his first appearance in presence of 
his judge, before, whom he is, nevertheless, determined to 
assert his innocence. Her arms were folded, her mouth 
primmed into an expression of respect, mingled with ob- 
stinacy, her whole mind apparently bent up to the solemn 
interview. With her best curtsey to the ground, and a 
mute motion of reverence, Mause pointed to the chair, 
which on former occasions. Lady Margaret (for the good 
lady was somewhat of a gossip) had deigned to occupy 
for Jialf an hour sometimes at a time, hearing the news of 
the county and of the borough. But at present her mis- 
tress was far too indignant for such condescension. She 
rejected the mute invitation with a haughty wave of her 
hand, and drawing herself up as she spoke, she uttered 
the following interrogatory in a tone calculated to over- 
whelm the culprit. 

“ Is it true, Mause, as I am imformed by Harrison, 
Gudyill, and others of my people, that you hae taen it 
upon you, contrary to the faith you owe to God and the 
King, and to me, your natural lady and mistress, to keep 
back your son frae the wappen-schaw, held by the order 
of the sheriff, and to return his armour and abuilyiements 
at a moment when it was impossible to find a suitable del- 
egate in bis stead, whereby the barony of Tillietudlem, 
baith in the person of its mistress and in-dwellers, has in- 
curred sic a disgrace and dishonour as hasna befa’en the 
family since the days of Malcolm Canmore 

Manse’s habitual respect for her mistress was extreme ; 
she hesitated, and one or two- short coughs expressed the 
difficulty she had in defending herself. 

“ I am sure — my leddy — hem, hem ! — I am sure I am 
sorry — very sorry that ony cause of displeasure should 

hae occurred — but my son’s illness” 

20 VOL. I. 


230 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


“ Dinna tell me of your son’s illness, Mause ! Had he 
been sincerely unweel, ye would hae been at the tower 
by daylight to get something that wad do him gude ; 
there are few ailments that 1 havena medical recipes for, 
and that ye ken fu’ week” 

“ O ay, my leddy ! I am sure ye hae wrought won- 
derful cures ; the last thing ye sent Cuddie when he had 
the batts, e’en wrought like a charm.” 

“ Why, then, woman, did ye not apply to me, if there 
was ony real need — But there was none, ye fause-heart- 
ed vassal that ye are !” 

“ Your leddyship never ca’d me sic a word as that be- 
fore. Ohon ! that I suld live to be ca’d sae,” she con- 
tinued, bursting into tears, “ and me a born servant o’ the 
house o’ Tillietudlem ! I am sure they belie baith Cud- 
die and me sail* if they said he wad na fight ower the 
boots in blude for your leddyship and Miss Edith, and the 
auld Tower — ay suld he, and I would rather see him 
buried beneath it, than he suld gie way — but thir ridings 
and wappen-shawings, my leddy, I hae nae broo o’ them 
ava. 1 can find nae warrant for them whatsoever.” 

“ Nae warrant for them ?” cried the high-born dame. 
Do ye na ken, woman, that ye are bound to be liege vas- 
sals in all hunting, hosting, watching, and warding, when 
lawfully summoned thereto in my name ? Your service is 
not gratuitous. 1 trow ye hae land for it. — Ye’re kindly 
tenants ; hae a cot-house, a kale-yard, and a cow’s grass on 
the common. — Few hae been brought farther ben, and ye 
grudge your son suld gie me a day’s service in the field ?” 

“ Na, my leddy — na, my leddy, it’s no that*” exclaim- 
ed Mause, greatly embarrassed, “ but ane canna serve 
twa maisters ; and, if the truth maun e’en come out, 
there’s Ane abune whase commands 1 maun obey before 
your leddyship’s. 1 am sure I would put neither king’s 
nor kaisar’s, nor ony earthly creature’s afore them.” 

How mean ye by that, ye auld fule woitjan D’ya 
think that 1 order onything against conscience T’ 

I dinna pretend to say that, my leddy, in regard o 
your leddyship’s conscience, which has been brought up 


OLD MOllTALITY. 


231 


as it were, wi’ prelatic principles ; but ilka ane maun walk 
by the light o’ their ain j and mine,” said Mause, waxing 
bolder as the conference became animated, “ tells me that 
1 suld leave a’ — cot, kale-yard, and cow’s grass, — and 
suffer a’, rather than that I or mine should put on harness 
in an unlawfu’ cause.” 

“ Unlawfu’ !” exclaimed her mistress ; “ the cause to 
which you are called by your lawfu’ leddy and mistress — 
by the command of the King — by the writ of the privy 
council — by the order of the lord-lieutenant — by the war- 
rant of the sheriff?” 

“ Ay, my leddy, nae doubt ; but, no to displeasure 
your leddyship, ye’ll mind that there was ance a king in 
Scripture they ca’d Nebuchadnezzar, and he set up a gold- 
en image in the plain o’ Dura, as it might be in the haugh 
yonder by the water-side, where the array were warned 
to meet yesterday ; and the princes, and the governors, 
jnd the captains, and the judges themsells, forbye the 
treasurers, the counsellors, and the sheriffs, were warned 
to the dedication thereof, and commanded to fall down 
and worship at the sound o’ the cornet, flute, harp, sack- 
ful, psaltery, and all kinds of music.” 

“ And what o’ a’ this, ye fule wife 9 Or what had 
I'Jebuchadnezzar to do with the wappen-schaw of the 
Upper Ward of Clydesdale 

“ Only just thus far, my leddy,” continued Mause, firm- 
y, that prelacy is like the great golden image in the 
plain of Dura, and that as Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed- 
nego vverp borne out in refusing to bow down and worship, 
so neither shall Cuddy Headrigg, your leddyship’s poor 
pleughman, at least wi’ his auld mither’s consent, make 
murgeons, or jennyflections, as they ca’ them, in the house 
of the prelates and curates, nor gird him wi’ armour to 
fight in their cause, either at the sound of kettle-drums, 
organs, bagpipes, or ony other kind of music whatever.” 

Lady Margaret Bellenden heard this exposition of 
Scripture with the greatest possible indignation as well as 
surprise. 


232 


TALES or MV LANDLORD. 


“ I see which way the wind blaws,” she exclaimed, 
after a pause of astonishment ; “ the evil spirit of the 
year sixteen hundred and forty-twa is at wark again as 
merrily as ever, and ilka auld wife in the chimley-neuk 
will be for knapping doctrine wi’ doctors o’ divinity and 
the godly fathers o’ the church.” 

“ If your leddyship means the bishops and curates. I’m 
sure they hae been but stepfathers to the Kirk o’ Scotland. 
And, since your leddyship is pleased to speak o’ parting 
wi’ us, I am free to tell ye a piece o’ my mind in another 
article. Your leddyship and the steward hae been pleas- 
ed to propose that my son Cuddie suld work in the barn 
• wi’. a new-fangled machine* for dighting the corn frae the 
chaff, thus impiously thwarting the will of Divine Provi- 
dence, by raising wind for your leddyship’s ain particular 
use by human art, instead of soliciting it by prayer, or 
waiting patiently for whatever dispensation of wind Prov- 
idence was pleased to send upon the sheeling-hill. Now, 
my leddy” 

“ The woman would drive ony reasonable being daft !” 
said Lady Margaret ; then, resuming her tone of author- 
ity and indifference, she concluded, “ Weel, Mause, I’ll 
just end where I suld hae begun — ye’re ower learned and 
ower godly for me to dispute wi’ j sae I have just this to 
say, either Cuddie must attend musters when he’s lawfully 
warned by the ground-officer, or the sooner he and you 
flit and quit my bounds the better ; there’s nae scarcity 
o’ auld wives or ploughmen ; but, if there were, I had 
rather that the rigs of Tillietudlem bare naething but wind- 
le-straes and sandy lavrocksf than that they were plough- 
ed by rebels to the King.” 

“ Aweel, my leddy,” said Mause, “ I was born here, 
and thought to die wliere my father died ; and your led- 
dyship has been a kind mistress. I’ll ne’er deny that, and 
I’se ne’er cease to pray for you, and for Miss Edith, and 

* Probably something similar to the barn-fanners now used for winnowing 
corn, which were not, however, used in their present shape until abou*. 1730. 
They were objected to by the more rigid sectaries on their first introduction 
upon such reasoning as that of honest Mause, in the text, 
t Bent-grass and sand-larks. 


OLD MORTALITY. 


233 


that ye may be brought to see the error of your ways. 
But still” 

“ The error of my ways !” interrupted Lady Margaret^ 
much incensed — “ The error of my ways, ye uncivil 
woman ?” 

“ Ou ay, my leddy, we are blinded that live in this val- 
ley of tears and darkness, and hae a’ ower mony errors, 
grit folks as weel as sma’ — but, as I said, my puir benison 
will rest wi’ you and yours wherever lam. I will be wae 
to hear o’ your affliction, and blithe to hear o’ your pros- 
perity, temporal and spiritual. But 1 canna prefer the 
commands of an earthly mistress to those of a heavenly 
master, and sae I am e’en ready to suffer for righteous- 
ness sake.” 

“ It is very well,” said Lady Margaret, turning her 
back in great displeasure ; “ ye ken my will, Mause, in 
the matter. I’ll hae nae whiggery in the barony of Til- 
lietudlem — the next thing wad be to set up a conventicle 
in my very withdrawing room.” 

Having said this, she departed with an air of great 
dignity ; and Mause, giving way to feelings which she had 
suppressed during the interview, — for she, like her mis- 
tress, had her own feeling of pride, — now lifted up her 
voice and wept aloud. 

Cuddie, whose malady, real or pretended, still detained 
him in bed, lay perdue during all this conference, snugly 
ensconced within his boarded bedstead, and terrified to 
death lest Lady Margaret, whom he held in hereditary 
reverence, should have detected his presence, and bestow- 
ed on him personally some of those bitter reproaches with 
which she loaded his mother. But as soon as he thought 
her ladyship fairly out of hearing, he bounced up in his nest. 

“ The foul fa’ ye, that I suld say sae,” he cried out to his 
mother, “ for a lang-tongued clavering wife, as my father, 
honest man, aye ca’d ye ! Couldna ye let the leddy alane 
wi’ your whiggery ? And I was e’en as great a gomeril to 
let ye persuade me to lie up here amang the blankets like 
9 hurcheon, instead o’ gaun to the wappen-schaw like 
20* VOL. I 


234 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


Other folk. Odd, but I put a trick on ye, for I was out 
at the window-bole when your auld back was turned, and 
awa down by to hae a bafF at the popinjay, and I shot 
within twa on’t. I cheated the leddy for your clavers, but 
I wasna gaun to cheat my joe. But she may marry whae 
she likes now, for I’m clean dung ower.* This is a waur 
dirdum than we got frae Mr. Gudyill when ye garr’d me 
refuse to eat the plum-porridge on Yule-eve, as if it were 
ony matter to God or man whether a pleughman had sup- 
pit on minched pies or sour sowens.” 

‘‘ O, whisht, my bairn, whisht,” replied Mause ; “ thou 
kensna about thae things — It was forbidden meat, things 
dedicated to set days and holidays, which are inhibited 
to the use of protestant Christians.” 

“ And now,” continued her son, “ ye hae brought the 
leddy hersellon our hands ! — An I could but hae gotten 
some decent claes on, I wad hae spanged out o’ bed, and 
tauld her I wad ride where she liked, night or day, an 
she wad but leave us the free house and the yaird that 
grew the best early kale in the haill country, and the cow’s 
grass.” 

“ O wow ! my winsome bairn, Cuddie,” continued the 
old dame, “ murmur not at the dispensation ; never grudge 
suffering in the gude cause.” 

“ But what ken I if the cause is gude or no, mither,” 
rejoined Cuddie, “ for a’ ye bleeze out sae muckle doc- 
trine about it 9 It’s clean beyond my comprehension a’ 
thegither. I see nae sae muckle difference atween the 
twa ways o’t as a’ the folk pretend. It’s very true the 
curates read aye the same words ower again ; and if they 
be right words, what for no 9 A gude tale’s no the waur 
o’ being twice tauld, I trow ; and a body has aye the bet- 
ter chanqe to understand it. Every body’s no sae gleg at 
the uptake as ye are yoursell, mither.” 

“ O, my dear Cuddie, this is the sairest distress of a’,” 
said the anxious mother — “ O, how aften have 1 shown ye 
the difference between a pure evangelical doctrine and 
ane that’s corrupt wi’ human inventions ? O, my bairn, if 
no for your ain saul’s sake, yet for my grey hairs” 


OLD MORTALITY. 


235 


‘‘ Weei, mither,” said Cuddie, interrupting her, “ what 
need ye mak sae muckle din about it I hae aye dune 
whatever ye bade me, and gaed to kirk whare’er ye likii 
on the Sundays, and fended weel for ye in the iJka days 
besides. And that’s what vexes me mair than a’ the rest, 
when I think how I am to fend for you now in thae brickie 
times. 1 am no clear if I can pleugh ony place but the 
Mains and Mucklewhame, at least I never tried any other 
grund, and it wadna come natural to me. And nae neigh- 
bouring heritors will daur to take us after being turned aff 
thae bounds for non-enormity.” 

“ Non-conformity, hinnie,” sighed Mause, ‘‘ is the 
name that thae warldly men gie us.” 

“ Weel, aweel — we’ll hae to gang to a far country, 
maybe twal or fifteen miles afF. [ could be a dragoon, 
nae doubt, for I can ride and play wi’ the broad-sword a 
bit, but ye wad be roaring about your blessing and your 
grey hairs.” (Here Mause’s exclamations became ex- 
treme.) Weel, weel, I but spoke o’t ; besides ye’re ower 
auld to be sitting cocked up on a baggage-wagon wi’ 
Eppie Dumblane the corporal’s wife. Sae what’s to 
come o’ us I canna weel see — I doubt I’ll hae to tak the 
hills wi’ the wild whigs, as they ca’ them, and then it will 
be my lot to be shot down like a mawkin at some dyke- 
side, or to be sent to Heaven wi’ a Saint Johnstone’s tippit 
about my hause.” 

“ O, my bonnie Cuddie,” said the zealous Mause, 
“ forbear sic carnal, self-seeking language, whilk is just a 
misdoubting o’ Providence — I have not seen the son of 
the righteous begging his bread, sae says the text ; and 
vour father was a douce honest man, though somewhat 
warldly in his dealings, and cumbered about earthly things 
e’en like yoursell, my jo !” 

“ Aweel,” said Cuddie, after a little consideration, “ 1 
see but ae gate for’t, and that’s a cauld coal to blaw at, 
mither. Howsomever, mither, ye hae some guess o’ a 
wee bit kindness that’s atween Miss Edith and young Mr. 
Henry Morton, that suld be ca’d young Milnwood, and 
that I hae whiles carried a bit book or may be a bit letter 
quietly atween them, and made believe never to ken wha 


23G 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


It cam frae, though I kend brawly. There’s whiles con 
^venience in a body looking a w^ee stupid — and I have aften 
seen them walking at e’en on the little path by Dinglewood- 
hurn ; but naebody ever kend a word about it frae Cud- 
die ; I ken I’m gay thick in the head, but I’m as honest 
as our auld fore-hand ox, puir fallow, that I’ll ne’er work 
ony mair — I hope they’ll be as kind to him that come 
ahint me as I hae been. — But, as 1 was saying, we’ll awa 
down to Milnwood and tell Mr. Harry our distress. They 
w'ant a pleughman, and the grund’s no unlike our ain — 1 
am sure Mr. Harry will stand my part, for he’s a kind- 
liearted gentleman. — I’ll get but little penny-fee, for his 
uncle, auld Nippie Milnwood, has as close a grip as the 
deil l)iMisell. But we’ll aye w-in a bit bread, and a drap 
kale, and a fire-side, and theeking ower our heads, and 
that’s a’ we’ll want for a season — Sae get up, mither, and 
sort your things to gang away; for since sae it is that gang 
we maun, I wad like ill to wait till Mr. Harrison and auld 
Gudyill cam to pu’ us out by the lug and the horn.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

The devil a puritan, or anything else, he is, but a time-server. 

Twelfth J\tghi. 

It was evening when Mr. Henry Morton perceived an 
old woman, wrapped in her tartan plaid, supported by a 
stout, stupid-looking fellow, in hoddin-grey, approach the 
house of Milnwood. Old Mause made her courtesy but 
Cuddie took* the lead in addressing Morton. Indeed, he 
had previously stipulated with his mother that he was to 
manage matters his own w^ay ; for though he readily al- 
lowed his general inferiority of understanding, and filially 
submitted to the guidance of his mother on most ordinary 
occasions, yet he said, “ For getting a service, or getting 


OLD MORTAIilTY. 


23' 


forward in the warld, he could somegate gar the wee pickle 
sense he had gang muckle farther than hers, though she 
could crack like ony minister o’ them a’.” 

Accordingly, he thus opened the conversation with 
young Morton : — 

“ A braw night this for the rye, your honour ; the west 
park will be breering bravely this e’en.” 

“ I do not doubt it, Cuddie ; but what can have brought 
your mother — this is your mother, is it not ?” (Cuddie 
nodded.) “ What can have brought your mother and 
you down the water so late 

“ Troth, stir, just what gars the auld wives trot — ne- 
shessity, stir — I’m seeking for service, stir.” 

“ For service, Cuddie, and at this time of the year 
how comes that 9” 

Mause could forbear no longer. Proud alike of her 
cause and her sufferings, she commenced with an affected 
humility of tone, “ It has pleased Heaven, an it like your 

honour, to distinguish us by a visitation” 

“ DeiFs in the wife and n'ae gude !” whispered Cud- 
die to his mother, “ an ye come out wi’ your whiggery 
they’ll no daur open a door to us through the haill coun- 
try !” Then aloud and addressing Morton, “ My moth- 
er’s auld, stir, and she has rather forgotten hersell in speak- 
ing to my leddy, that canna weel bide to be contradickit, 
(as I ken naebody likes it if they could help themsells,) 
especially by her ain folk, — and Mr. Harrison the steward, 
and Gudyill the butler, they’re no very fond o’ us, and 
it’s ill sitting at Rome and striving wi’ the Pope, sae I 
thought it best to flit before ill came to waur — and here’s 
a wee bit line to your honour frae a friend will maybe say 
some mair about it.” 

Morton took the billet, and crimsoning up to the ears, 
between joy and surprise, read these words : “ If you can 
serve these poor helpless people, you will oblige E. B.’* 
It was a few instants before he could attain composure 
enough to ask, “ And what is your objecl, Cuddie 9 and 
how can I be of use to you 9” • ^ 

‘‘ Wark, stir, wark, and a service is my object — a bit 
bield for my mither and mysell— we hae gude plenishing 


238 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


o’ our ain, if we had the cast o’ a cart to bring it down 
— and milk and meal, and greens enow, for I’m gay gleg 
at meal-time, and sae is my mother, lang may it be sae — 
And, for the penny-fee and a’ that. I’ll just leave it to the 
laird and you. I ken ye’ll no see a poor lad wranged, if 
ye can help it.” 

Morton shook his head. “ For the meat and lodging, 
Cuddie, I think I can promise something, but the penny- 
fee will be a hard chapter, I doubt.” 

“ I’ll tak my chance o’t, stir,” replied the candidate fo 
service, “ rather than gang down about Hamilton, or ony 
sic far country.” 

“ Well ; step into the kitchen, Cuddie, and I’ll do what 
I can for you.” 

The negotiation was not without difficulties. Morton 
had first to bring over the housekeeper, who made a thou- 
sand objections, as usual, in order to have the pleasure of 
being besought and entreated ; but, when she was gained 
over, it was comparatively easy to induce old Milnwood 
to accept of a servant, whose wages were to be in his own 
option. An outhouse was, therefore, assigned to Mause 
and her son for their habitation, and it was settled that 
they were for the time to be admitted to eat of the frugal 
fare provided for the family until their own estab- 
lishment should be completed. As for Morton, he ex- 
hausted his own very slender stock of money in order to 
make Cuddie such a present, under the name of arles, 
as might show his sense of the value of the recommenda- 
tion delivered to him. 

“ And now we’re settled ance mair,” said Cuddie to 
his mother, “ and if we’re no sae bien and comfortable 
as we were up yonder, yet life’s life ony gate, and we’re 
wi’ decent kirk-ganging folk o’ your ain persuasion mith- 
er ; there will be nae quarrelling about that.” 

“ Of my persuasion, hinnie !” said the too-enlighten- 
ed Mause ; “ waes me for thy blindness and theirs. O, 
Cuddie, they are but in the court of the Gentiles, and 
will ne’er wiq, farther ben, I doubt ; they are but lit- 
tle better than the prelatists thernsells. They wait on 


OLD MOIITALITY. 


239 


the ministry of that blinded man, Peter Poundtexi, 
ance a precious teacher of the Word, hut now a back- 
sliding pastor, that has, for the sake of stipend and 
family maintenance, forsaken the strict path and gane 
astray after the black Indulgence. O, my son, had ye 
but profited by the gospel doctrines ye hae heard in the 
Glen o’ Bengonnar frae the dear Richard Rumbleberry, 
that sw^eet youth, who suffered martyrdom in the Grass- 
market, afore Candlemas ! Didna ye hear him say that 
Erastianism was as bad as prelacy, and that the Indul- 
gence was as bad as Erastianism *?” 

“ Heard ever onybody the like o’ this !” interrupted 
Cuddie ; “ we’ll be driven out o’ house and ha’ again 
afore we ken where to turn oursells. Weel, mither, I hae 
just ae word mair — An I hear ony mair o’ your din — 
afore folk, that is, for I dinna mind your clavers mysell, 
they aye set me sleeping — but if I hear ony mair din afore 
folk, as I w'as saying, about Poundtexts and Rumbleber- 
ries, and doctrines and malignants, I’se e’en turn a single 
sodger mysell, or maybe a sergeant or a captain if ye plague 
me the mair, and let Rumbleberry and you gang to the 
deil thegither. I ne’er gat ony gude by his doctrine, as 
ye ca’t, but a sour fit o’ the batts wi’ sitting amang the 
wat moss-hags for four hours at a yoking, and the leddy 
cured me wi’ some hickery-pickery, mair by token, an 
she had kend how I came by the disorder, she wadna 
hae been in sic a hurry to mend it.” 

Although groaning in spirit over the obdurate and Im- 
penitent state, as she thought it, of her son Cuddie, Mause 
durst neither urge him farther on the topic, nor altogether 
neglect the warning he had given her. She knew the dis- 
position of her deceased helpmate, whom this surviving 
pledge of their union greatly resembled, and remembered, 
that although submitting implicitly in most things to her 
boast of superior acuteness, he used on certain occasions-,, 
when driven to extremity, to be seized with fits of obsti- 
nacy which neither remonstrance, flattery, nor threats, 
were capable of overpowering. Trembling, therefore, 
at the very possibility of Caddie’s fulfilling his threat, sh^ 


240 


TALES or MY LANDLORD. 


put a guard over her tongue, and even when Poundtext 
was commended in her presence, as an able and fructifying 
preacher, she had the good sense to suppress the contradic- 
tion which thrilled upon her tongue, and to express her sen- 
timents no otherwise than by deep groans, which the hear- 
ers charitably construed to flow from a vivid recollection 
of the more pathetic parts of his homilies. How long 
she could have repressed her feelings it is difficult to say. 
An unexpected accident relieved her from the necessity. 

The Laird of Milnwood kept up all old fashions which 
were connected with economy. It was, therefore, still 
the custom in his house, as it had been universal in Scot- 
land about fifty years before, that the domestics, after 
having placed the dinner on the table, sat down at the 
lower end of the board, and partook of the share which 
was assigned to them, in company with their masters. 
On the day, therefore, after Cuddie’s arrival, being the 
third from the opening of this narrative, old Robin, who 
was butler, valet-de-chambre, footman, gardener, and 
what not, in the house of Milnwood, placed on the table 
an immense charger of broth, thickened with oatmeal and 
colewort, in which ocean of liquid was indistinctly dis- 
covered, by close observers, two or three short ribs of lean 
mutton sailing to and fro. Two huge baskets, one of 
bread made of barley and pease, and one of oat-cakes, 
flanked this standing dish. A large boiled salmon would 
now-a-days have indicated more liberal housekeeping ; 
but at that period salmon was caught in such plenty in the 
considerable rivers in Scotland, that instead of being ac- 
counted a delicacy, it was generally applied to feed the 
servants, who are said sometimes to have stipulated that 
th^ey should not be required to eat a food -*80 luscious 
and surfeiting in its quality above five times a-week. 
The large black jack, filled with very small beer oi 
Milnwood’s own brewing, was allowed to the company at 
discretion, as were the bannocks, cakes, and broth ; but 
the mutton was reserved for the heads of the family, 
Mrs. Wilson included : and a measure of ale, somewhat 
deserving the name, was set apart in a silver tankard for 
their exclusive use. A huge kebbock, (a cheese, that is, 


OLD MORTALITY. 


241 


made with ewe milk mixed with cow’s milk) and a jar of 
salt butter, were in common to the company. 

To enjoy this exquisite cheer, was placed at the head 
of the table the old laird himself, with his nephew on the 
one side, and the favourite housekeeper on the other. At 
a long interval, and beneath the salt of course, sat old 
Robin, a meagre, half-starved serving-man, rendered cross 
and cripple by rheumatism, and a dirty drab of a house- 
maid, whom use had rendered callous to the daily exer 
citations which her temper underwent at the hands of her 
master and Mrs. Wilson. A barn-man, a white-headed 
cow-herd boy, with Cuddie the new ploughman and his 
mother, completed the party. The other labourers be- 
longing to the property resided in their own houses, happy 
at least in this, that if their cheer was not more delicate 
than that which we have described, they could eat their 
fill, unwatched by the sharp, envious grey eyes of Miln- 
wood, which seemed to measure the quantity that each 
of his dependants swallowed, as closely as if their glances 
attended each mouthful in its progress from the lips to the 
stomach. This close inspection was unfavourable to 
Cuddie, who sustained much prejudice in his new mas- 
ter’s opinion, by the silent celerity with which he caus- 
ed the victuals to disappear before him. And ever and 
anon Milnwood turned his eyes from the huge feeder to 
cast indignant glances upon his nephew, whose repug- 
nance to rustic labour was the principal cause of his need- 
ing a ploughman, and who had been the direct means of 
his hiring this very cormorant. 

“ Pay thee wages, quotha *?” said Milnwood to him- 
self, — “ Thou wilt eat in a week the value of mair than 
thou canst work for in a month.” 

These disagreeable ruminations were interrupted by a 
loud knocking at the outer-gate. It was a universal cus- 
tom in Scotland, that, when the family was at dinner, the 
outer-gate of the court-yard, if there was one, and if not, 
the door of the house itself, was always shut and locked, 
md only guests of importance, or persons upon urgent 
21 VOL. I 


242 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


business, sought or received admittance at that time.^ The 
family of Miliivvood were therefore surprised, and, in the 
unsettled state of the times, something alarmed, at the 
earnest and repeated knocking with which the gate was 
now assailed. Mrs. Wilson ran in person to the door, 
and, having reconnoitered those who were so clamorous 
for admittance, through some secret aperture with which 
most Scottish door-ways were furnished for the express 
purpose, she returned wringing her hands in great dismay, 
exclaiming, “ The red-coats ! the red-coats !” 

“ Robin — Ploughman — what ca’ they ye 9 — Barnsman 
— Nevoy Harry — open the door, open the door!” ex- 
claimed old Milnwood, snatching up and slipping into his 
pocket the two or three silver spoons with which the up- 
per end of the table was garnished, those beneath the salt 
being of goodly horn. “ Speak them fair, sirs — Lord 
love ye, speak them fair — they winna bide thrawing — 
we’re a’ harried — we’re a’ harried !” 

While the servants admitted the troopers, whose oaths 
and threats already indicated resentment at the delay they 
had been put to, Cuddie took the opportunity to whisper 
to his mother, “ Now, ye daft auld carline, makyoursell 
deaf — ye hae made us a’ deaf ere now — and let me speak 
for ye. I would like ill to get my neck raxed for an auld 
wife’s clashes, though ye be our mither.” 

“ O, hinny, ay ; I’se be silent or thou sail come to ill,” 
was the corresponding whisper of Mause ; “ but bethink 
ye, my dear, them that deny the Word, the Word will 
deny” 

Her admonition was cut short by the entrance of the 
Life-Guard’s-men, a party of four troopers commanded 
by Both well. 

In they tramped, making a tremendous clatter upon the 
stone-floor with the iron-shod heels of their large jack- 
boots, and the clash and clang of their long, heavy, basket- 
hiked broad-swords. Milnwood and his housekeeper 
trembled from well-grounded apprehensions of the system 
of exaction and plunder carried on during these domicil- 
iary visits. Henry Morton was discomposed with more 


OLD MORTALITY. 


243 


special cause, for he remembered that he stood answera- 
ble to the laws for having harboured Burley. The widow 
Mause Headrigg, between fear for her son’s life and an 
over-strained and enthusiastic zeal, which reproached her 
for consenting even tacitly to belie her religious senti- 
ments, was in a strange quandary. The other servants 
quaked for they knew not well what. Cuddie alone, with 
the look of supreme indifference and stupidity which a 
Scottish peasant can at times assume as a mask for con- 
siderable shrewdness and craft, continued to swallow large 
spoonfuls of his broth, to command which, he had drawn 
within his sphere the large vessel that contained it, and 
helped himself, amid the confusion, to a sevenfold portion. 

“ What is your pleasure here, gentlemen f” said Miln- 
wood, humbling himself before the satellites of power. 

“We come in behalf of the King,” answered Both- 
well ; “ why the devil did you keep us so. long standing 
at the door 9” 

“ We were at dinner,” answered Milnwood, “ and 
the door was locked, as is usual in landward towns ^in 
this country. I am sure, gentlemen, if 1 had kend ony 
servants of our gude king had stood at the door — But 
wad ye please to drink some ale — or some brandy — or a 
cup of canary-sack, or claret wine 9” making a pause 
between each offer as long as a stingy bidder at an auc- 
tion, who is loth to advance his offer for a favourite lot. 

“ Claret for me,” said one fellow. 

“ I like ale better,” said another, “ provided it is 
right juice of John Barleycorn.” 

“ Better never was malted,” said Milnwood ; “ I can 
hardly say sae muckle for the claret. It’s thin and cauld, 
gentlemen.” 

“ Brandy will cure that,” said a third fellow ; “ a 
glass of brandy to three glasses of wine prevents the 
curmuring in the stomach.” 

“ Brandy, ale, sack, and claret? — we’ll try them 
all,” said Bothwell, “ and stick to that which is best. 
There’s good sense in that, if the damn’dest whig in 
Scotland had said it.” 


244 


TALKS OF MY LANDLORD. 


Hastily, yet with a reluctant quiver of his muscles, 
Milnwood lugged out two ponderous keys, and delivered 
them to the governante. 

“ The housekeeper,” said Bothwell, taking a seat and 
throwing himself upon it, “ is neither so young nor so 
handsome as to tempt a man to follow her to the gauntrees, 
and devil a one here is there worth sending in her place. 
What’s this 9 — meat 9” (searching with a fork among 
the broth, and fishing up a cutlet of mutton) — I think 
I could eat a bit — why, it’s as tough as if the devil’s dam 
had hatched it.” 

“ If there is anything better in the house, sir,” said 
Milnwood, alarmed at thes-e symptoms of disapproba- 
tion — 

“ No, no,” said Bothwell, “ it’s not worth while, I 
must proceed to business. — You attend Poundtext, the 
presbyterian parson, I understand, Mr. Morton 9” 

Mr. Morton hastened to slide in a confession and 
apology. 

“ By the indulgence of his gracious majesty and the 
government, for I wad do nothing out of law — I hae nae 
objection whatever to the establishment of a moderate 
episcopacy, but only that I am a country-bred man, and 
the ministers are a hamelier kind of folk, and I can fol- 
low their doctrine better ; and, with reverence, sir, it’s a 
mair frugal establishment for the country.” 

“ Well, I care nothing about that,” said Bothwell ; 

they are indulged, and there’s an end of it ; but, for 
my part, if I were to give the law, never a crop-eared 
cur of the whole pack should bark in a Scotch pulpit. 
However, I am to obey commands. There comes the 
liquor ; put it down my good old lady.” 

He decanted about one-half of a quart bottle of claret 
‘nto a wooden quaigh or bicker, and took it off at a 
draught. 

“ You did your good wine injustice, my friend ; — it’s 
better than your brandy, though that’s good too. Will 
j^ou pledge me to the King’s health 9” 


OliD MORTALITY. 


246 


“ With pleasure,” said Milnwood, “ in ale, — but I 
sever drink claret, and keep only a very little for some 
honoured friends.” 

“ Like me, 1 suppose,” said Bothvvell ; and then, 
pushing the bottle to Henry, he said, “ Here, young 
man, pledge you the King’s health.” 

Henry filled a moderate glass in silence, regardless ol 
the hints and pushes of his uncle, which seemed to indi- 
cate that he ought to have followed his example in pre- 
ferring beer to wine. 

“ Well,” said Bothwell, “ have ye all drunk the toast ? 
— What is that old wife about ? Give her a glass of 
brandy, she shall drink the King’s health, by” 

“ If your honour pleases,”' said Cuddie, with great 
stolidity of aspect, “ this is my mither, stir ; and she’s as 
deaf as Corralinn ; we canna mak her hear day nor door ; 
but, if your honour pleases, I am ready to drink the 
King’s health for her in as mony glasses of brandy as ye 
think neshessary.” 

“ I dare swear you are,” answered Bothwell ; “ you 
look like a fellow that would stick to brandy — help thy- 
self, man ; all’s free where’er I come. — Tom, help the 
maid to a comfortable cup, though she’s but a dirty jilt 
neither. Fill round once more — Here’s to our noble 
commander. Colonel Grahame of Claverhouse ! — What 
the devil is the old woman groaning for 9 She looks as 
very a whig as ever sat on a hill-side — Do you renounce 
the Covenant, good woman 

“ Whilk Covenant is your honour meaning 9 Is it 
the Covenant of works, or the Covenant of Grace 9” 
Kaid Cuddie, interposing. 

“ Any covenant ; all covenants that ever were hatch- 
ed,” answered the trooper. 

“ Mither,” cried Cuddie, affecting to speak as to a 
deaf person, “ the gentleman wants to ken if ye will 
lenunce the Covenant of Works?” 

“ With all my heart, Cuddie,” said Mause, “ and 
21 * VOL. I. 


246 


TALES or MY LANDLORD. 


pray that my feet may be delivered from the snare 
thereof.” 

“ Come,” said Bothwell, “ the old dame has come 
more frankly off than I expected. Another cup round, 
and then we’ll proceed to business. — You have all heard, 
I suppose, of the horrid and barbarous murder committed 
upon the person of the Archbishop of St. Andrews, by 
ten or eleven armed fanatics ?” 

All started and looked at each other ; at length Miln- 
wood himself answered, “ They had heard of some such 
misfortune, but were in hopes it had not been true.” 

“ There is the relation published by government, old 
gentleman ; what do you think of it T’ 

“ Think, sir f Wh — wh — whatever the council please 
to think of it,” stammered Milnwood. 

“ I desire to have your opinion more explicitly, my 
friend,” said the dragoon authoritatively. 

Milnwood’s eyes hastily glanced through the paper to 
pick out the strongest expressions of censure with which 
it abounded, in gleaning which he was greatly aided by 
their being printed in italics. 

“ I think it a — bloody and execrable — murder and 
parricide — devised by hellish and implacable cruelty — 
utterly abominable, and a scandal to the land.” 

“ Well said, old gentleman!” said the querist — “ Here’s 
to thee, and I wish you joy of your good principles. 
You owe me a cup of thanks for having taught you them ; 
nay, thou shalt pledge me in thine own sack — sour ale 
sits ill upon a loyal stomach. — Now comes your turn, 
young man ; what think you of the matter in hand 

“ I should have little objection to answer you,” said 
Henry, “ if I knew what right you had to put the ques 
lion.” 

“ The Lord preserve us I” said the old housekeeper, 
“ to ask the like o’ that at a trooper, when a’ folk ken 
they do whatever they like through the hail country wi’ 
man and woman, beast and body.” 

The old gentleman exclaimed in the same horror at 
his nephew’s audacity, “ Hold your peace, sir, or an- 


OLD MORTALITY. 


247 


swer the gentleman discreetly. Do you mean to affront 
the King’s authority in the person of a sergeant of the 
Life-guards 

“ Silence, all of you!” exclaimed Bothwell, striking 
his hand fiercely on the table — “ Silence, every one of 
you, and hear me ! — You ask me for my right to exam- 
ine you, sir ; (to Henry) my cockade and my broad- 
sword are my commission, and a better one than ever 
Old Nol gave to his roundheads ; and if you want to 
know more about it, you may look at the act of council 
empowering his Majesty’s officers and soldiers to search 
for, examine, and apprehend suspicious persons ; and, 
therefore, once more, 1 ask you your opinion of the death 
of Archbishop Sharpe — it’s a new touchstone we have 
got for trying people’s metal.” 

Henry had, by this time, reflected upon tlie useless 
risk to which he would expose the family by resisting the 
tyrannical power which was delegated to such rude hands ; 
he therefore read the narrative over, and replied com- 
posedly, “ I have no hesitation to say, that the perpetra- 
tors of this assassination have commited, in my opinion, 
a rash and wicked action, which 1 regret the more, as I 
foresee it will be made the cause of proceedings against 
many who are both innocent of the deed, and as far from 
approving it as myself.” 

While Henry thus expressed himself, Bothwell, who 
bent his eyes keenly upon him, seemed suddenly to re- 
collect his features. 

“ Aha ! my friend Captain Popinjay, I think I have 
seen you before, and in very suspicious company.” 

“ 1 saw you once,” answered H^wy, “ in the public- 
house of the town of .” 

“ And with whom did you leave that public-house, 
youngster*? — Was it not with John Balfour of Burley, one 
of the murderers of the Archbishop 9” 

“ I did leave the house with the person you have 
named,” answered Henry, “ I scoin to deny it ; but, so 
far from knowing him to be a murderer of the primate, I 


248 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


did not even know at the time that such a crime had 
been committed.” 

“ Lord have mercy on me, I am ruined ! — utterly 
ruined and undone !” exclaimed Milnwood. “ That 
callant’s tongue will rin the head afF his ain shoulders, 
and waste my gudes to the very grey cloak on my back.” 

‘‘ But you knew Burley,” continued Bothwell, still 
addressing Henry, and regardless of his uncle’s inter- 
ruption, “ to be an intercornmuned rebel and traitor, 
and you knew the prohibition to deal with such persons. 
You knew, that, as a loyal subject, you were prohibited 
to reset, supply, or intercommune with this attainted 
traitor, to correspond with him by word, writ, or message, 
or to supply him with meat, drink, house, harbour, or vic- 
tual, under the highest pains — You knew all this, and yet 
you broke the law.” (Henry was silent.) “ Where did 
you part from him *?” continued Bothwell ; “ was it in 
the highway, or did you give him harbourage in this very 
house *?” 

“ In this house !” said his uncle ; “ he dared not for 
his neck bring ony traitor into a house of mine.” 

“ Dare he deny that he did so said Bothwell. 

“ As you charge it to me as a crime,” said Henry, 
“ you will excuse my saying anything that will criminate 
myself.” 

“ O, the lands of Milnwood ! — the bonny lands of 
Milnwood, that have been in the name of Morton twa 
hundred years !” exclaimed his uncle ; “ they are bark- 
ing and fleeing, outfield and infield, haugh and holme 1” 

“ No, sir,” said Henry, “ you shall not suffer on my 
account. — I own, continued, addressing Bothwell, 
“ I did give this man a night’s lodging, as to an old mili- 
tary comrade of my father. But it was not only withe ut 
my uncle’s knowledge, but contrary to his express gene- 
ral orders. I trust, if my evidence is considered as 
good against myself, it will have some weight in proving 
my uncle’s innocence.” 

“ Come, young man,” said the soldier, in a somewhat 
milder tone, “ you’re a smart spark enough, and 1 am 


OLD MORTALITY. 


249 


Borry for you ; and your uncle here is a fine old Trojan, 
kinder, 1 see, to his guests than himself, for he gives us 
wine and drinks his own thin ale — tell me all you know 
about th's Burley, what he said when you parted from 
him, where he went, and where he is likely now to be 
found ; and, d — n it. I’ll wink as hard on your share of 
the business as my duty will permit. There’s a thousand 
merks on the murdering whigamore’s head, an’ I could 
but light on it — Come, out with it — where did you part 
with him 

“ You will excuse my answering that question, sir,” 
said Morton ; “ the same cogent reasons which induced 
me to afford him hospitality at considerable risk to mysell 
and my friends, would command me to respect his secret, 
if, indeed, he had trusted me with any.” 

“ So you refuse to give me an answer T’ said Both- 
well. 

“ I have none to gh^e,” returned Henry. 

“ Perhaps I could teach you to find one, by tying a 
piece of lighted match betwixt your fingers,” answered 
Bothwell. 

“ O, for pity’s sake, sir,” said old Alison apart to her 
master, “ gie them siller — it’s siller they’re seeking — 
they’ll murder Mr. Henry, and yoursell next !” 

Milnwood groaned in perplexity and bitterness of 
spirit, and, with a tone, as if he was giving up the ghost, 
exclaimed, “ If twenty p — p — punds would make up 
this unhappy matter” 

“ My master,” insinuated Alison to the sergeant, 
“ would gie twenty punds sterling.” 

“ Punds Scotch, ye b — hi” interrupted Milnwood, for 
the agony of his avarice overcame alike his puritanic 
precision and the habitual respect he entertained for his 
housekeeper. 

“ Punds sterling,” insisted the housekeeper, “ if ye 
wad hae the gudeness to look ower the lad’s misconduct, 
he’s that dour ye might tear him to pieces, and ye wac 
ne’er get a word out o’ him ; and it wad do ye little gude 
I am sure, to burn his bonnv finger-ends.” 


250 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


** Why,” said Bothwell, hesitating, “ I don’t know — 
most of my cloth would have the money, and take off 
the prisoner too ; but I bear a conscience, and if your 
master will stand to your offer, and enter into a bond to 
produce his nephew, and if all in the house will take the 
test-oath, I do not know but” 

“ O ay, ay, sir,” cried Mrs. Wilson, “ ony test, ony 
oaths ye please !” And then aside to her master, 
‘‘ Haste ye away, sir, and get the siller, or they will burn 
the house about our lugs.” 

Old Milnwood cast a rueful look upon his adviser, and 
moved off, like a piece of Dutch clock-work, to set at 
liberty his imprisoned angels in this dire emergency. 
Meanwhile, Sergeant Bothwell began to put the test-oath 
with such a degree of solemn reverence as might have 
been expected, being just about the same which is used 
to this day in his Majesty’s custom-house. 

“ You — what’s your name, woman 9” 

“ Alison Wilson, sir.” 

‘‘ You, Alison Wilson, solemnly swear, certify, and 
declare, that you judge it unlawful for subjects, under 
pretext of reformation, or any other pretext whatsoever, 
to enter into Leagues and Covenants” 

Here the ceremony was interrupted by a strife be- 
tween Cuddie and his mother, which, long conducted in 
whispers, now became audible. 

“ O, whisht, mither, whisht ! they’re upon a commun« 
ing — Oh ! whisht, and they’ll agree weel eneuch e’now.” 

“ 1 will not whisht, Cuddie,” replied his mother, “ I 
will uplift my voice and spare not — I will confound the 
man of sin, even the scarlet man, and through my voice 
shall Mr. Henry be freed from the net of the fowler.” 

“ She has her leg ower the harrows now,” said Cud- 
die, “ stop her wha can — I see her cocked up behint a 
dragoon on her way to the Tolbooth — I find my ain legs 
tied below a horse’s belly — Ay — she has just mustered 
up her sermon, and there — wi’ that grane — out it comes, 
and we are a’ ruined, horse and foot !” 


OLD MORTALITY. 


251 


“ And div ye think to come here,” said Mause, her 
withered hand shaking in concert with her keen, though 
wrinkled visage, animated by zealous wrath, and eman- 
cipated by the very mention of the test, from the re- 
straints of her own prudence and Cuddie’s admonition— • 
“ div ye think to come here, wi’ your soul-killing, saint- 
seducing, conscience-confounding oaths, and tests, and 
bands — your snares, and your traps, and your gins ? — 
Surely it is in vain that a net is spread in the sight of any 
bird.” 

“ Eh ! what, good dame ?” said the soldier. “ Here’s 
a whig miracle, egad ! the old wife has got both her ears 
and tongue, and we are like to be driven deaf in our turn. 
Go to, hold your peace, and remember whom you talk to, 
you old idiot.” 

“ Whae do I talk to ! Eh, sirs, ower weel may the 
sorrowing land ken what ye are. Malignant adherents 
ye are to the prelates, foul props to a feeble and filthy 
cause, bloody beasts of prey, and burdens to the earth.” 

“ Upon my soul,” said Bothwell, astonished as a 
mastifF-dog might be should a hen-partridge fly at him in 
defence of her young, “ this is the finest language I ever 
heard ! Can’t you give us some more of it 9” 

“ Gie ye some mair o’t ?” said Mause, clearing her 
voice with a preliminary cough, “ I will take up my tes- 
timony against you ance and again. — Philistines ye are, 
and Edomites — leopards are ye, and foxes — evening- 
wolves, that gnaw not the bones till the morrow — wicked 
dogs, that compass about the chosen — thrusting kine, and 
pushing bulls of Bashan — piercing serpents ye are, and 
allied baith in name and nature with the great Red Dra- 
gon; Revelations, twalfth chapter, third and fourth verses.” 

Here the old lady stopped, apparently much more 
from lack of breath than of matter. 

“ Curse the old hag!” said one of the dragoons, 

gag her, and take her to head-quarters.” 

‘‘ For shame, Andrews,” said Bothwell ; “ remember 
<he good lady belongs to the fair sex, and uses only the 
privilege of her tongue. — But, hark ye, good woman 


252 


TALES or MY LANDLORD. 


every Bull of Bashan and Red Dragon will not be so 
civil as I am, or be contented to leave you to the charge 
of the constable and ducking-stool. In the mean time, I 
must necessarily carry off this young man to head-quar- 
ters. 1 cannot answer to my commanding-officer to leave 
him in a house where I have heard so much treason and 
fanaticism.” 

“ See now, mither, what ye hae dune,” whispered 
Cuddie ; “ there’s the Philistines, as ye ca’ them, are 
gaun to whirry awa’ Mr. Henry, and a’ wi’ your nashgab, 
deil be on’t !” 

“ Hand yere tongue, ye cowardly loon,” said the 
mother, “ and layna the wyte on me ; if you and thae 
thowless gluttons that are sitting staring like cows burst- 
ing on clover, wad testify wi’ your hands as I hae tes- 
tified wi’ my tongue, they should never harle the precious 
young lad awa’ to captivity.” 

While this dialogue passed, the soldiers had already 
boun'd and secured their prisoner. Milnwood returned 
at this instant, and, alarmed at the preparations he be- 
held, hastened to proffer to Bothwell, though with many 
a grievous groan, the purse of gold which he had been 
obliged to rummage out as ransom for his nephew. The 
trooper took the purse with an air of indifference, weigh- 
ed it in his hand, chucked it up into the air, and caught 
it as it fell, then shook his head, and said, There’s 
many a merry night in this nest of yellow boys, but d — n 
me if 1 dare venture for them — that old woman has spoken 
too loud, and before all the men too. — Hark ye, old gen- 
tleman,” to Milnwood, “ I must take your nephew to 
head-quarters, so I cannot, in conscience, keep more thai 
is my due as civility-money then opening the purse, 
he gave a gold piece to each of the soldiers, and took 
three to himself. “ Now,” said he, “ you have the 
comfort to know that your kinsman, young Captain Pop- 
injay, will be carefully looked after and civilly used, and 
die rest of the money 1 return to you.” 

Milnwood eagerly extended his hand. 


OLD MORTALITY. 


253 


Only, you know,” said Bothwell, still playing with 
the purse, “ that every landholder is answerable for the 
conformity and loyalty of his household, and that these 
fellows of mine are not obliged to be silent on the sub- 
ject of the fine sermon we have had from that old puri- 
tan in the tartan plaid there ; and I presume you are 
aware that the consequences of delation will be a heavy 
fine before the council.” 

“ Good sergeant, — worthy captain !” exclaimed the 
terrified miser, “ 1 am sure there is no person in my 
house, to my knowledge, would give cause of offence.” 

“ Nay,” answered Bothwell, “ you shall hear her 
give her testimony, as she calls it, herself. — You fellow,” 
(to Cuddie) “ stand back, and let your mother speak 
her mind. I see she’s primed and loaded again since 
her first discharge.” 

“ Lord ! noble sir,” said Cuddie, “ an auld wife’s 
tongue’s but a feckless matter to mak sic a fash about. 
Neither my father nor me ever minded muckle what our 
mither said.” 

“ Hold your peace, my lad, while you are well,” said 
Bothwell ; “ I promise you 1 think you are slyer than 
you would like to be supposed. — Come, good dame, you 
see your master will not believe that you can give us so 
bright a testimony.” 

Mause’s zeal did not require this spur to set her again 
on full career. 

“ Woe to the compilers and carnal self-seekers,” she 
said, “ that daub over and drown their consciences by 
complying with wicked: exactions, and giving mammon of 
unrighteousness to the sons of Belial, that it may make 
their peace with them ! It is a sinful compliance, a base 
confederacy with the enemy. It is the evil that Mena- 
hem did in the sight of the Lord, when he gave a thou- 
sand talents to Pul, King of Assyria, that his hand might 
be with him; Second Kings, feifteen chapter, nineteen 
verse. It is the evil deed of Ahab, when he sent money 
to Tiglath-Pileser, see the saanie Second Kings, sax- 

•22 VOL. i. 


254 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


teen and aught. And if it was accounted a backsliding 
even in godly Hezekiah, that he complied with Senna- 
cherib, givdng him money and offering to bear that which 
was put upon him, (see the saame Second Kings, augh- 
teen chapter, fourteen and feifteen verses) even so it is 
with them that in this contumacious and backsliding gen- 
eration pays localities and fees, and cess and fines, to 
greedy and unrighteous publicans, and extortions and 
stipends to hireling curates, (dumb dogs which bark not, 
sleeping, lying down, loving to slumber) and gives gifts to 
be helps and hires to our oppressors and destroyers. 
They are all like the casters of a lot with them — like the 
preparing of a table for the troop, and the furnishing a 
drink-offering to the number.” 

“ There’s a fine sound of doctrine for you, Mr. Mor- 
ton ! How like you thatT’ said Bothwell ; “ or how do 
you think the Council will like it I think we can carry 
the greatest part of it in our heads without a kylevine pen 
and a pair of tablets, such as you bring to conventicles. 
She denies paying cess, 1 think, Andrews *?” 

“ Yes, by G — ,” said Andrews ; “ and she swore it 
was a sin to give a trooper a pot of ale, or ask him to sit 
down to a table.” 

You hear,” said Bothwell, addressing Milnwood, 

but it’s your own affair ;” and he proffered back the 
purse with its dirninished contents, with an air of indiffer- 
ence. 

Milnwood, whose head seemed stunned by the accu- 
mulation of his misfortunes, extended his hand mechan- 
ically to take the purse. 

“ Are ye mad 9” said his housekeeper, in a whisper ; 
“ tell them to keep it ; — they will keep it either by fair 
means or foul, and it’s our only chance to make them 
quiet.” 

“ I canna do it, Alie — I canna do it,” said Milnwood 
in the bitterness of his heart. “ I canna part wi’ the 
siller I hae counted sae often ower, to thae blackguards.” 

“ Then 1 maun do it mysell, Milnwood,” said the 
housekeeper, “ or see a’ gang wrang thegither. — My 


OLD MORTALITY. 


255 


master, sir,” she said, addressing Bothwell, ‘‘ canna think 
o’ taking back onything at the hand of an honourable gen- 
tleman like you ; he implores ye to pit up the siller, and 
be as kind to his nephew as ye can, and be favourable in 
reporting our dispositions to government, and let us tak 
nae wrang for the daft speeches of an auld jaud,” (here 
she turned fiercely upon Mause, to indulge herself for 
the effort which it cost her to assume a mild demeanour 
to the soldiers,) “ a daft auld whig randy, that ne’er was 
in the house (foul fa’ her) till yesterday afternoon, and 
that sail ne’er cross the door-stane again an anes I had 
her out o’t.” 

“ Ay, ay,” whispered Cuddie to his parent, “ e’en sae ! 
I kend we wad be put to our travels again whene’er ye 
suld get three word spoken to an end. I was sure that 
wad be the upshot o’t, mither.” 

“ Whisht, my bairn,” said she, “ and dinna murmur 
at the cross — cross their door-stane ! wTel I wot I’ll ne’er 
cross their door-stane. There’s nae mark on their thres- 
hold for a signal that the destroying angel should pass 
by. They’ll get a back-cast o’ his hand yet, that think 
sae muckle o’ the creature, and sae little o’ the Creator 
— sae muckle o’ w^arld’s gear and sae little o’ a broken 
covenant — sae muckle about thae wheen pieces o’ yellow 
muck, and sae little about the pure gold o’ the Scripture 
— sae muckle about their ain friend and kinsman, and sae 
little about the elect that are tried wd’ homings, harass- 
ings, huntings, searchings, chasings, catchings, imprison- 
ments, torturings, banishments, headings, hangings, dis- 
memberings, and quarterings quick, forbye the hundreds 
forced from their ain habitations to the deserts, mountains, 
muirs, mosses, moss-fiows, and peat-hags, there to hear 
the word like bread eaten in secret.” 

“ She’s at the Covenant now, sergeant, shall we not 
have her away 9” said one of the soldiers. 

“ You be d — d!” said Bothwell, aside to him ; “ can- 
not you see she’s better where she is, so long as there is 
a respectable, sponsible, money-broking heritor, like Mr. 
Morton of Milnwood, who has the means of atoning her 


256 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


trespasses 9 Let the old mother fly to raise another brood, 
she’s too tough to be made anything of herself — Here,’^ 
he cried, “ one other round to Milnwood and his roof- 
tree, and to our next merry meeting with him ! — which 
I think will not be far distant, if he keeps such a fanat- 
ical family.” 

He then ordered the party to take their horses, and 
pressed the best in Milnwood’s stable into the King’s ser- 
vice to carry the prisoner. Mrs. Wilson, with weeping 
eyes, made up a small parcel of necessaries for Henry’s 
compelled journey, and as she bustled about, took an 
opportunity, unseen by the party, to slip into his hand a 
small sum of money. Bothwell and his troopers, in 
other respects, kept their promise, and were civil. They 
did not bind their prisoner, but contented themselves with 
leading his horse between a file of men. They then 
mounted, and marched off with much mirth and laughter 
among themselves, leaving the Milnwood family in great 
confusion. The old laird himself, overpowered by the 
loss of his nephew, and the unavailing outlay of twenty 
pounds sterling, did nothing the whole evening but rock 
himself backwards and forwards in his great leathern 
easy-chair, repeating the same lamentation, of “ Ruined 
on a’ sides, ruined on a’ sides — harried and undone — 
harried and undone ! body and gudes, body and gudes !” 

Mrs. Alison Wilson’s grief was partly indulged and 
partly relieved by the torrent of invectives with which 
she accompanied Mause and Cuddie’s expulsion from 
Milnwood. 

111 luck be in the gracing corse o’ thee ! the prettiest 
lad in Clydesdale this day maun be a sufferer, and a’ for 
you and your daft whiggery!” 

“ Gae wa’,” replied Mause ; “ I trow ye are yet in 
the bonds of sin, and in the gall of iniquity, to grudge 
your bonniest and best in the cause of Him that gave ye 
a’ ye hae — I promise 1 hae dune as muckle for Mr. Harry 
as 1 wad do for my ain ; for if Cuddie was found worthy 
to bear testimony in the Grass-market” 


OLD MORTALITY. 


257 


‘‘ And there’s gude hope o’t,” said Alison, “ unless 
you and he change your courses.” 

“ And if,” continued Mause, disregarding the inter- 
ruption, “ the bloody Doegs and the flattering Ziphites 
were to seek to insnare me with a proffer of his remis- 
sion upon sinful compliances, I wad persevere, natheless, 
in lifting my testimony against popery, prelacy, antino- 
minianism, erastianism, lapsarianism, sublapsarianism, and 
the sins and snares of the times — I wad cry as a woman 
in labour against the black Indulgence, that has been a 
stumbling-block to professors — I wad uplift my voice as a 
powerful preacher.” 

“ Hout tout, mither,” cried Cuddie, interfering, and 
dragging her off forcibly, “ dinna deave the gentlewo- 
man wi’ your testimony ! ye hae preached eneugh for sax 
days. Ye preached us out o’ our canny free-house and 
gude kale-yard, and out o’ this new city o’ refuge afore 
our hinder-end was weel hafted in it ; and ye hae preach- 
ed Mr. Harry awa’ to the prison ; and ye hae preached 
twenty punds out o’ the laird’s pocket that he likes as ill 
to quit wi’ 5. and sae ye may baud sae for ae wee while 
without preaching me up a ladder and down a tow. Sae 
come awa’, come awa’ ; the family hae had eneugh o’ 
your testimony to mind it for ae while.” 

So saying, he dragged off Mause, the words, “ Tes- 
timony — Covenant — malignants — indulgence,” still thrill- 
ing upon her tongue, to make preparations for instantly 
renewing their travels in quest of an asylum. 

“ Ill-fard, crazy, crack-brained gowk, that she is !” 
exclaimed the housekeeper, as she saw them depart, 
“ to set up to be sae muckle better than ither folk, the 
auld besom and to bring sae muckle distress on a douce 
quiet family ! If it hadna been that I am mair than half 
a gentlewoman by my station, I wad hae tried my ten 
nails in the wizen hide o’ her!” 


22 * VOL. I. 


258 


TAXES OF MY XANDLORD 


CHAPTER IX. 


I am a son of Mars who have been in many wars, 

And show my cuts and scars wherever I come ; 

This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench, 

When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum. 

Bums. 

“ Don’t be too much cast down,” said Sergeant Both- 
well to his prisoner as they journeyed on towards the 
head-quarters; “yon are a smart pretty lad, and well 
connected ; the worst that will happen will be strapping 
up for it, and that is many an honest fellow’s lot. I tell 
you fairly your life’s within the compass of the law, un- 
less you make submission, and get off by a round fine 
upon your uncle’s estate ; he can well afford it.” 

“ That vexes me more than the rest,” said Henry. 
“ He parts with his money with regret ; and, as he had 
no concern whatever with my having given this person 
shelter for a night, I wish to Heaven, if I escape a capital 
punishment, that the penalty may be of a kind I could 
bear in my own person.” 

“ *Why, perhaps,” said Bolhwell, “ they will propose 
to you to go into one of the Scotch regiments that are 
serving abroad. It’s no bad line of service ; if your 
friends are active, and there are any knocks going, you 
may soon get a commission.” 

“ 1 am by no means sure,” answered Morton, “ that 
such a sentence is not the best thing that can happen to 
me.” 

“ Why, then, you are no real whig after all 9” said 
the sergeant. 

“ I have hitherto meddled with no party in the state,” 
said Henry, “ hut have remained quietly at home ; and 
sometimes I have had serious thoughts of joining one of 
our foreign regiments.” 


OLD MORTALITY. 


269 


Have you ?” replied Bothwell ; “ why, I honour 
you for it ; I have served in the Scotch French guards 
myself many a long day ; it’s the place for learning dis- 
cipline, d — n me. They never mind what you do when 
you are off duty ; but miss you the roll-call, and see how 
they’ll arrange you — D — n me, if old Captain Montgom- 
ery didn’t make me mount guard upon the arsenal in my 
steel-back and breast, plate-sleeves and head-piece, for 
six hours at once, under so burning a sun, that gad J was 
baked like a turtle at Port Royale. I swore never to 
miss answering to Francis Stuart again, though I should 
leave my hand of cards upon the drum-head — Ah ! dis- 
cipline is a capital thing.” 

“ In other respects you liked the service 9” said Morton. 

‘‘ Par excellence , said Bothwell ; “ women, wine, 
and wassail, all to be had for little but the asking ; and if 
you find it in your conscience to let a fat priest think he 
has some chance to convert you, gad he’ll help you to 
these comforts himself just to gain a little ground in your 
good affection. Where will you find a crop-eared whig 
parson will be so civil 9” 

“ Why, nowhere, 1 agree with you,” said Henry ; 
‘‘ but what was your chief duty 9” 

“ To guard the King’s person,” said Bothwell, “ to 
look after the safety of Louis le Grand, my boy, and 
now and then to take a turn among the Huguenots (pro- 
lestants that is.) And there we had fine scope ; it 
brought my hand pretty well in for the service in this coun- 
try. But, come, as you are to be a hon earner ado, as the 
Spaniards say, I must put you in cash with some of your 
old uncle’s broad-pieces. This is cutter’s law ; we must 
not see a pretty fellow want, if we have cash ourselves.” 

Thus speaking, he pulled out his purse, took out some 
of the contents, and offered them to Henry without 
counting them. Young Morton declined the favour ; 
and, not judging it prudent to acquaint the sergeant, not- 
withstanding his apparent generosity, that he was actually 
in possession of some money, he assured him he should 
have no difficulty in getting a supply from his uncle. 


260 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


“ Well,” said Bothwell, ‘‘ in that case these yellow 
rascals must serve to ballast my purse a little longer. I 
always make it a rule never to quit the tavern (unless 
ordered on duty) while my purse is so weighty thatl can 
chuck it over the sign-post.^^ When it is so light that the 
wind blows it back, then, boot and saddle, — we must fall 
on some way of replenishing. — But what tower is that 
before us, rising so high upon the steep bank, out of the 
woods that surround it on every side ?” 

“ It is the tower of Tillietudlem,” said one of the 
soldiers. “ Old Lady Margaret Bellenden lives there. 
She’s one of the best affected w'omen in the country, and 
one that’s a soldier’s friend. When I was hurt by one 
of the d — d whig dogs that shot at me from behind a 
fauld-dyke, I lay a month there, and would stand such 
another wound to be in as good quarters again.” 

“ If that be the case,” said Bothwell, “ I will pay my 
respects to her as we pass, and request some refreshment 
for men and horses ; 1 am as thirsty already as if I had 
drunk nothing at Milnwood. But it is a good thing in 
these times,” he continued, addressing himself to Hen- 
ry, “ that the King’s soldier cannot pass a house without 
getting a refreshment. In such houses as Tillie — what 
d’ye call itr you are served for love ; in the houses of the 
avowed fanatics you help yourself by force ; and among 
the moderate presbyterians and other suspicious persons, 
you are well treated from fear ; so your thirst is always 
quenched on some terms or other.” 

“ And you propose,” said Henry anxiously, to go 
upon that errand up to the tower yonder ?” 

“ To be sure I do,” answered Bothwell. “ How 
should 1 be able to report favourably to my officers of the 
worthy lady’s sound principles, unless I know the taste 
of her sack, for sack she will produce — that 1 take for 
granted ; it is the favourite consoler of your old dowager 
of quality, as small claret is the potation of your country 
laird.” 

‘‘ Then, for Heaven’s sake,” said Henry, “ if you are 
determined to go there, do not mention my name, or ex 


OLD MORTALITY. 


261 


pose me to a family that I am acquainted with. Let me 
be muffled up for the time in one of your soldier’s cloaks, 
and only mention me generally as a prisoner under your 
charge.” 

“ With all my heart,” said Bothwell ; “ 1 promised to 
use you civilly, and 1 scorn to break my word. — Here, 
Andrew's, wrap a cloak round the prisoner, and do not 
mention his name, nor where we caught him, unless you 
would have a trot on a horse of wood.’’^^ 

They were at this moment at an arched gateway, bat- 
tlemented and flanked with turrets, one whereof was 
totally ruinous, excepting the lower story, which served 
as a cow-house to the peasant, whose family inhabited 
the turret that remained entire. The gate had been 
broken down by Monk's soldiers during the civil war, and 
had never been replaced, therefore presented no obstacle 
to Bothwell and his party. The avenue, very steep and 
narrow, and causewayed with large round stones, as- 
cended the side of the precipitous bank in an oblique and 
zigzag course, now showing now hiding a view of the 
tower and its exterior bulwarks, which seemed to rise 
almost perpendicularly above their heads. The frag- 
ments of Gothic defences which it exhibited were upon 
such a scale of strength as induced Bothwell to exclaim, 

It’s well this place is in honest and loyal hands. Egad, 
if the enemy had it, a dozen of old whigamore wives wdth 
their distaffs might keep it against a troop of dragoons, at 
least if they had half the spunk of the old girl we left at 
Milnwood. Upon my life,” he continued, as they came 
in front of the large double tower and its surrounding 
defences and flankers, it is a superb place, founded, 
says the worn inscription over the gate — unless the rem- 
nant of my Latin has given me the slip— r- by Sir Ralph 
de Bellenden in J 350 — a respectable antiquity. I must 
greet the old lady with due honour, though it should put 
ntp to the labour of recalling some of the compliments 
that T used to dabble in when I was wont to keep that 
sort of company.” 


262 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


As he thus communed with himself, the butler, who 
had reconnoitred the soldiers from an arrow-slit in the 
wall, announced to his lady, that a commanded party of 
dragoons, or, as he thought, Life-Guardsrnen, waited at 
the gate with a prisoner under their charge. 

“ I am certain,” said Gudyill, “ and positive, that the 
sixth man is a prisoner, for his horse is led, and the two 
dragoons that are before have their carabines out of their 
budgets and rested upon their thighs. It was aye the 
way we guarded prisoners in the days of the great Mar- 
quis.” 

“ King’s soldiers *?” said the lady ; ‘‘ probably in want 
of refreshment. Go, Gudyill, make them welcome, and 
let them be accommodated with what provision and for- 
age the Tower can afford. — And stay, tell my gentlewo- 
man to bring my black scarf and manteau. 1 will go 
down myself to receive them ; one cannot show the King’s 
Idfe-Guards too much respect in times when they are 
doing so much for royal authority. And d’ye hear, Gud- 
yill, let Jenny Dennison slip on her pearlings to walk be- 
fore my niece and me, and the three women to walk 
behind ; and bid my niece attend me instantly.” 

Fully accoutred, and attended according to her direc- 
t'ons. Lady Margaret now sailed out into the court-yard of 
her tower with great courtesy and dignity. Sergeant 
Bothwell saluted the grave and reverend lady of the 
manor with an assurance which had something of the 
light and careless address of the dissipated men of fash- 
ion in Charles the Second’s time, and did not at all sa- 
vour of the awkward or rude manners of a non-commis- 
sioned officer of dragoons. His language, as well as his 
manners, seemed also to be refined for the time and oc- 
casion ; though the truth was, that, in the fluctuatidns of 
an adventurous and profligate life, Bothwell had some- 
times kept company much belter suited to his ancestry 
than to his present situation of life. To the lady’s re- 
quest to know whether she could be of service to them, 
he answered with a suitable bow, “ That as they had to 
march some miles farther that night, they would be much 


OLD MORTALITY. 


263 


accommodated by permission to rest their horses for an 
hour before continuing their journey.” 

“ With the greatest pleasure,” answered Lady Mar- 
garet, ‘‘ and I trust that my people will see that neither 
horse nor men want suitable refreshment. 

“We are well aware, madam,” continued Bothwell, 
“ that such has always been the reception, within the 
walls of Tillietudlem, of those who served the King.” 

“ We have studied to discharge our duty faithfully and 
loyally on all occasions, sir,” answered Lady Margaret, 
pleased with the compliment, “ both to our monarchs 
and to their followers, particularly to their faithful sol- 
diers. It is not long ago, and it probably has not escaped 
the recollection of his sacred majesty, now on the throne, 
since he himself honoured my poor house with his pres- 
ence, and breakfasted in a room in this castle, Mr. Ser- 
geant, which my waiting-gentlewoman shall show you ; 
we still call it the King’s room.” 

Bothwell had by this time dismounted his party, and 
committed the horses to the charge of one file, and the 
prisoner to that of another, so that he himself was at lib- 
erty to continue the conversation which the lady had so 
condescendingly opened. 

“ Since the King, my master, had the honour to expe- 
rience your hospitality, I cannot wonder that it is extend- 
ed to those that serve him, and whose principal merit is 
doing it with fidelity. And yet I have a nearer relation 
to his majesty than this coarse red coat \t^ould seem to 
indicate.” 

“ Indeed, sir 9 Probably,” said Lady Margaret, “ you 
have belonged to his household 

“ Not exactly, madam, to his household, but rather to 
his house ; a connection through which I may claim 
kindred with most of the best families in Scotland, not, 1 
believe, exclusive of that of Tillietudlem.” 

“ Sir ?” said the old lady, drawing herself up with 
dignity at hearing what she conceived an impertinent jest, 

1 do not understand you.’" 


264 


TAIES OF MY LANDLORD. 


“ It’s but a foolish subject for one in my situation tc 
talk of, madam,” answered the trooper, “ but you must 
have heard of the history and misfortunes of my grand 
father, Francis Stuq^t, to whom James I., his cousin 
german, gave the title of Bothwell, as my comrades give 
me the nick-name. It was not in the long run more ad- 
vantageous to him than it is to me.” 

“ Indeed *]” said Lady Margaret, with much sympathy 
and surprise ; “ I have indeed always understood that 
the grandson of the last Earl was in necessitous circum- 
stances, but I should never have expected to see him so 
low in the service. With such connections what ill for- 
tune could have reduced you” 

“ Nothing much out of the ordinary course, I believe, 
madam,” said Bothwell, interrupting and anticipating the 
question. “ I have had my moments of good luck like 
my neighbours — have drank my bottle with 'Rochester, 
thrown a merry main with Buckingham, and fought at 
Tangier’s side by side with Sheffield. But my luck never 
lasted ; I could not make useful friends out of my jolly 
companions — Perhaps I was not sufficiently aware,” he 
continued with some bitterness, “ how much the descend- 
ant of the Scottish Stuarts was honoured by being ad- 
mitted into the convivialities of Wilmot and Villiers.” 

“ But your Scottish friends, Mr. Stuart, your relations 
here, so numerous and so powerful ?” 

“ Why, ay, my lady,” replied the sergeant, “ I believe 
some of them might have made me their gamekeeper, for 
I am a tolerable shot — some of them would have enter- 
tained me as their bravo, for I can use my sword well — 
and here and there was one, who, when better company 
was not to be had, would have made me his companion, 
since 1 can drink my three bottles of wine. — But I don’t 
know how it is — between service and service among; my 
kinsmen, I prefer that of my cousin Charles as the most 
creditable of them all, although the pay is but poor, and 
the livery far from splendid.” 

“ It is a shame, it is a burning scandal !” said Lady 
Margaret. “ Why do vou not apply to his most sacred 


OLD MORTALITY. 


266 


majesty ? he cannot but be surprised to hear that a scion 
of his august family” 

“ I beg your pardon, madam,” interrupted the ser- 
geant, “ I am but a blunt soldier, and I trust you will ex- 
cuse me when I say, his most sacred majesty is more busy 
in grafting scions of his own than with nourishing those 
which were planted by his grandfather’s grandfather.” 

“ Well, Mr. Stuart,” said Lady Margaret, “ one thing 
you must promise me — remain at Tillietudlem to-night; 
to-morrow I expect your commanding-officer, the gallant 
Claverhouse, to whom king and country are so much 
obliged for his exertions against those who would tuni the 
world upside down. I will speak to him on the subject 
of your speedy promotion, and I am certain he feels too 
much, both what is due to the blood which is in your 
veins, and to the request of a lady so highly distinguished 
as myself by his most sacred majesty, not to make better 
provision for you than you have yet received.” 

“ I am much obliged to your ladyship, and I certainly 
will remain here with my prisoner, since you request it, 
especially as it will be the earliest way of presenting him 
to Colonel Grahame, and obtaining his ultimate orders 
about the young spark.” 

“ Who is your prisoner, pray you ?” said Lady Mar- 
garet. 

A young fellow of rather the better class in this 
neighbourhood, who has been so incautious as to give 
countenance to one of the murderers of the primate, and 
to facilitate the dog’s escape.” 

“ O, fie upon him!” said Lady Margaret; “I am 
but too apt to forgive the injuries I have received at the 
hands of these rogues, though some of them, Mr. Stuart, 
are of a kind not like to be forgotten ; but those who 
would abet the perpetrators of so cruel and deliberate a 
homicide on a single man, an old man, and a man of 
the Archbishop’s sacred profession — O fie upon him 1 If 
you wish to make him secure, with little trouble to your 
people, I will cause Harrison, or Gudyill, look for the 
23 VOL. I. 


266 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


key of our pit, or principal dungeon. It has not bee 
opened since the week after the victory of Kilsythe, when 
my poor Sir Arthur Bellenden put twenty whigs into it ; 
hut it is not more than two stories beneath ground, so it 
cannot he unwholesome, especially as I rather believe 
there is somewhere an opening to the outer air.” 

“ 1 beg your pardon, madam,” answered the sergeant ; 
“ I dare say the dungeon is a most admirable one ; but 1 
have promised to be civil to the lad, and T will take care 
he is watched so as to render escape impossible. I’ll set 
those to look after him shall keep him as fast as if his 
legs were in the boots, or his fingers in the thumbikins.” 

“ Well, Mr. Stuart, ”• rejoined the lady, “ you best 
know your own duty. I heartily wish you good evening, 
and commit you to the care of my steward, Harrison. I 
would ask you to keep ourselves company, but a — a — -a — ” 

“ O madam, it requires no apology ; I am sensible the 
coarse red coat of King Charles II. does and ought to an- 
nihilate the privileges of the red blood of King James V.” 

“ Not with me, I do assure you, Mr. Stuart ; you do 
me injustice if you think so. I will speak to your officer 
to-morrow ; and I trust you shall soon find yourself in a 
rank where there shall be no anomolies to be reconciled.” 

“ I believe, madam,” said Bothwell, “ your goodness 
will find itself deceived ; but I am obliged to you for 
your intention, and, at all events, 1 will have a merry 
night with Mr. Harrison.” 

Lady Margaret took a ceremonious leave, with all the 
respect which she owed to royal blood, even when flow- 
ing in the veins of asergeantof the Life-Guards, again as- 
suring Mr. Stuart, that whatever was in the Tower of 
Tillietudlem was heartily at his service and that of his 
attendants. 

Sergeant Bothwell did not fail to take the lady at her 
word, and readily forgot the height from which his family 
had descended, in a joyous carousal, during which Mr. 
Harrison exerted himself to produce the best wine in the 
cellar, and to excite his guest to be merry by that seduc- 


OLD MORTALITY. 


267 


ng example, which, in matters of conviviality, goes farth- 
er than precept. Old Gudyill associated himself with a 
party so much to his taste, pretty much as Davy ’n- the 
Second Part of Henry the Fourth mingles in the revels 
of his master. Justice Shallow. He ran down to the 
cellar at the risk of breaking his neck, to ransack some 
private catacomb, known, as he boasted, only to himself, 
and which never either had, or should, during his superin- 
tendance, render forth a bottle of its contents to any one 
but a real king’s friend. 

“ When the Duke dined here,” said the butler, seat- 
ing himself at a distance from the table, being somewhat 
overawed by Bothwell’s genealogy, but yet hitching his 
seat half a yard nearer at every clause of his speech, “ my 
leddy was importunate to have a bottle of that Burgun- 
dy,” (here he advanced his seat a little) — “ but 1 dinna 
ken how it was, Mr. Stuart, 1 misdoubted him. 1 ja- 
loused him, sir, no to be the friend to government he 
pretends ; the family are not to lippen to. That auld 
Duke James lost his heart before he lost his head ; and 
the Worcester man was but w’ersh parritch, neither gude 
to fry, boil, nor sup cauld.” (With this witty observation 
he completed his first parallel, and* commenced a zigzag 
after the manner of an experienced engineer, in order to 
continue his approaches to the table.) “ Sae, sir, the 
faster my leddy cried ‘ Burgundy to his Grace — the 
auld Burgundy — the choice Burgundy — the Burgundy 
that came ower in the thirty-nine’ — the mair did I say to 
mysell, deil a drap gangs down his hause unless I was 
mair sensible o’ his principles ; sack and claret may 
serve him. Na, na, gentlemen, as lang as I hae the trust 
o’ butler in this house o’ Tillietudlem, I’ll tak it upon me 
to see that nae disloyal or doubtfu’ person is the better o’ 
our biims. But when I can find a true friend to the King 
and his cause, and a moderate episcopacy ; when 1 find 
a man, as 1 say, that will stand by church and crown as I 
did mysell in my master’s life, and all through Montrose’s 
rime, r think there is naething in the cellar ower gude to 
De spared on him.” 


268 


TALES OF M\ LANDLORD. 


By this time he had completed a lodgment in the body 
of the place, or, in other words, advanced his seat close 
to the table. 

“ And now, Mr. Francis Stuart of Bothwell, I have 
the honour to drink your gude health, and a commission 
t’ye, and much luck may ye have in raking this country 
clear o’ whigs and roundheads, fanatics and Cove- 
nanters.” 

Bothwell, who, it may well be believed, bad long ceas- 
ed to be very scrupulous in point of society, which he 
regulated more by his convenience and station in life than 
his ancestry, readily answered the butler’s pledge, ac- 
knowledging at the same time, the excellence of the 
wine ; and Mr. Gudyill, thus adopted a regular member 
of the company, continued to furnish them with the means 
of mirth until an early hour in the next morning. 


CHAPTER X. 

Did I but purpose to embark with thee 
On the smooth surface of a summer sea, 

And would forsake the skiff and make the shore 
When the winds whistle and the tempests roar ? 

Prior. 

While Lady Margaret held, with the high-descended 
sergeant of dragoons, the conference which we have de- 
tailed in the preceding pages, her grand-daughter, par- 
taking in a less degree her ladyship’s enthusiasm for all 
\vho were sprung of the blood-royal, did not Innour 
Sergeant Bothwell with more attention than a single 
• glance, which showed her a tall powerful person, and a 
set of hardy weather-beaten features, to which pride and 
dissipation had given an air where discontent mingled 
with the reckless gaiety of desperation. The other sol- 
diers offered still less to detach her consideration ; but 


OLD iMOIlTALITY. 


269 


from the prisoner, muffled and disguised as he was, she 
found it impossible to withdraw her eyes. Yet she blam- 
ed herself for indulging a curiosity which seemed obvi- 
ously to give pain to him who was its object. 

“ I wish,” she said to Jenny Dennison, who was the 
immediate attendant on her person, “ I wish we knew 
who that poor fellow is.” 

“ I was just thinking sae mysell. Miss Edith,” said the 
waiting woman, “ but it canna be Cuddie Headrigg, be- 
cause he’s taller and no sae stout.” 

“ Yet,” continued Miss Bellenden, “ it may be some 
poor neighbour, for whom we might have cause to interest 
ourselves.” 

“ I can sune learn wha he is,” said the enterprizing 
Jenny, “ if the sodgers were anes settled and at leisure, 
for I ken ane o’ them very weel — the best-looking and 
the youngest o’ them.” 

“ I think you know all the idle young fellows about the 
country,” answered her mistress. 

“ Na, Miss Edith, I am no sae free o’ my acquaintance 
as that,” answered the fille-de-chambre. “ To be sure, 
folk canna help kenning the folk by head- mark that they 
see aye glowring and looking at them at kirk and market ; 
but I ken few lads to speak to unless it be them o’ the 
family, and the three Steinsons, and Tam Rand, and the 
young miller, and the five Howisons in Nethersheils, and 
lang Tam Gilry, and” 

“ Pray cut short a list of exceptions which threatens 
to be a long one, and tell me how you come to know this 
young soldier,” said Miss Bellenden. 

“ Lord, Miss Edith, it’s Tam Halliday, Trooper Tam, 
as they ca’ him, that was wounded by the hill-folk at the 
conventicle at Outer-side Muir, and lay here while he 
was under cure. 1 can ask him onything, and Tam will 
no refuse to answer me. I’ll be caution for him.” 

“ Try, then,” said Miss Edith, “ if you can find an 
opportunity to ask him the name of his prisoner, and 
come to my room and tell me what he says.” 

Jenny Dennison proceeded on her errand, but soon 
23 * VOL. I. 


270 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


returned with such a face of surprise and dismay as 
evinced a deep interest in the fate of the prisoner. 

“ What is the matter said Edith, anxiously 5 ‘‘ does 
it prove to be Cuddie, after all, poor fellow 7” 

“ Cuddie, Miss Edith 7 Na ! na ! it’s nae Cuddie,” 
blubbered out the faithful fille-de-chambre, sensible of 
the pain which her news were about to inflict on her 
young mistress. “ O dear, Miss Edith, it’s young Miln- 
wood himsell!” 

“ Young Milnwood !” exclaimed Edith, aghast in her 
turn ; “ it is impossible — totally impossible ! — His uncle 
attends the clergyman indulged by law, and has no con- 
nection whatever with the refractory people ; and he him- 
self has never interfered in this unhappy dissension ; he 
must be totally innocent, unless he has been standing up 
for some invaded right.” 

“ O, my dear Miss Edith,” said her attendant, “ these 
are not days to ask what’s right or what’s wrang ; if he 
were as innocent as the new-born infant, they would find 
some way of making him guilty, if they liked ; but Tam 
Halliday says it will touch his life, for he has been reset- 
ting ane o’ the Fife gentlemen that killed that auld carle 
of an Archbishop.” 

“ His life !” exclaimed Edith, starting hastily up and 
speaking with a hurried and tremulous accent, — they 
cannot — they shall not — I will speak for him — they 
shall not hurt him !” 

“ O, my dear young leddy, think on your grandmoth- 
er ; think on the danger and the difficulty,” added Jen- 
ny ; ‘‘ for he’s kept under close confinement till Claver- 
tiouse comes up in the morning, and if he does na gie 
him full satisfaction, Tam Halliday says there will be brief 
wark wi’ him — Kneel down — mak ready — present — fire 
— ^just as they did wi’ auld deaf John Macbriar, that 
never understood a single question they pat till him, and 
sae lost his life for lack o’ hearing.” 

“ Jenny,” said the young lady, “ if he should die, I 
will die with him ; there is no time to talk of danger or 
difficulty — I will put on a plaid, and slip down with you 


OLD MORTALITY. 


271 


to the place where they have kept him — I will throw my- 
self at the feet of the sentinel, and entreat him, as he has 
a soul to be saved” 

“ Eh, guide us !” interrupted the maid, “ our young 
leddy at the feet o’ Trooper Tam, and speaking to him 
about his soul, when the puir chield hardly kens whether 
he has ane or no, unless that he whiles swears by it — that 
will never do ; but what maun be maun be, and I’ll never 
desert a true-love cause — Andsaeif ye maun see young 
Milnwood, though I ken nae gude it will do, but to make 
baith your hearts the sairer. I’ll e’en tak the risk o’t, and 
try to manage Tam Halliday ; but ye maun let me hae 
my ain gate, and no speak ae word — he’s keeping guard 
o’er Milnwood in the easter round of the tower.” 

“ Go, go, fetch me a plaid,” said Edith. “ Let me 
but see him, and I will find some remedy for his danger 
— Haste ye, Jenny, as ever ye hope to have good at my 
hands.” 

Jenny hastened, and soon returned with a plaid, in 
which Edith muffled herself so as completely to screen 
her face, and in part to disguise her person. This was 
a mode of arranging the plaid very common among the 
ladies of that century, and the earlier part of the suc- 
ceeding one ; so much so, indeed, that the venerable 
sages of the Kirk, conceiving that the mode gave tempt- 
ing facilities for intrigue, directed more than one act of 
Assembly against this use of the mantle. But fashion, as 
usual, proved too strong for authority, and while plaids 
continued to be worn, women of all ranks occasionally 
employed them as a sort of muffler or veil.^^ Her face 
and figure thus concealed, Edith, holding by her attend- 
ant’s arm, hastened with trembling steps to the place of 
Morton’s confinement. 

This was a small study, or closet, in one of the turrets, 
opening upon a gallery in which the sentinel was pacing 
to and fro ; for Sergeant Both well, scrupulous in observ- 
ing his word, and perhaps touched with some compassion 
for the prisoner’s youth and genteel demeanour, had 
waived the indignity of putting his guard into the same 


272 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


apartment with him. Halliday, therefore, with his cara- 
bine on his arm, walked up and down the gallery, occa- 
sionally solacing himself with a draught of ale, a huge 
flagon of which stood upon a table at one end of the 
apartment, and at other times humming the lively Scot- 
tish air, 

" Between Saint Johnstone and Bonny Dundee, 
ril gar ye be fain to follow me.’' ^ 

Jenny Dennison cautioned her mistress once more to 
let her take her own way. 

“ I can manage the trooper weel eneugh,” she said, 
‘‘ for as rough as he is — I ken their nature weel ; but ye 
maunna say a single word.” 

She accordingly opened the door of the gallery just as 
the sentinel had turned his back from it, and taking up 
the tune which he hummed, she sung in a coquettish tone 
of rustic raillery, 

“ If I were to follow a poor sodger lad, 

My friends wad be angry, my minnie be mad : 

A laird, or a lord, they were fitter for me, 

Sae I’ll never be fain to follow thee.” 

“ A fair challenge, by Jove,” cried the sentinel, turn- 
ing round, “ and from two at once ; but it’s not easy to 
bang the soldier with his bandeliers :” then taking up the 
song where the damsel had stopt, 

“ To follow me ye weel may be glad, 

A share of my supper, a share of my bed. 

To the sound of the drum to range fearless and free, 

I’ll gar ye be fain to follow me.” 

“ Come, my pretty lass, and kiss me for my song.” 

“ I should not have thought of that, Mr. Halliday,” 
answered Jenny, with a look and tone expressing just the 
necessary degree of contempt at the proposal, “ and, I’se 
assure ye, ye’ll hae but little o’ my company unless ye 
show gentler havings — It wasna to hear that sort o’ non- 


OLD MORTALITY. 


273 


sense that brought me here wi’ my friend, and ye should 
think shame o’ yoursell,’at should ye.” 

“ Umph ! and what sort of nonsense did bring you 
here then, Mrs. Dennison?” 

“ My kinswoman has some particular business with 
your prisoner, young Mr. Harry Morton, and I am come 
wi’ her to speak till him.” 

“ The devil you are!” answered the sentinel ; “ and 
pray, Mrs. Dennison, how do your kinswoman and you 
propose to get in You are rather too plump to whisk 
through a key-hole, and opening the door is a thing not 
to be spoke of.” 

“ It’s no a thing to be spoken o’ but a thing to be dune,” 
replied the persevering damsel. 

“ We’ll see about that, my bonny^ Jenny and the 
soldier resumed his march, humming as he walked to and 
fro along the gallery, 

" Keek into the draw-well, 

Janet, Janet, 

Then ye’ll see your bonny sell, 

My joe Janet.” 

“ So ye’re no thinking to let us in, Mr. Halliday 9 
Weel, weel, gude e’en to you — ye hae seen the last o’ 
me, and o’ this bonny-die too,” said Jenny, holding be- 
tween her finger and thumb a splendid silver dollar.” 

“ Give him gold, give him gold,” whispered the agi- 
tated young lady. 

“ Siller’s e’en ower gude for the like o’ him,” replied 
Jenny, “ that disna care for the blink o’ a bonny lassie’s 
ee — and what’s waur, he wad think there was something 
mair in’t than a kinswoman o’ mine. My certy ! siller’s 
no sae plenty wi’ us, let alane gowd.” Having addressed 
this advice aside to her mistress, she raised her voice, and 
said, “ My cousin winna stay ony langer, Mr. Halliday ; 
sae, if ye please, gude e’en t’ye.” 

“ Halt a bit, halt a bit,” said the trooper ; “ rein up 
and parley, Jenny. If I let your kinswoman in to speak 
to my prisoner, you must stay here and keep me compa- 


274 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


ny till she come out again, and then we’ll all be well 
pleased you know.” 

“ The fiend be in my feet then,” said Jenny ; ‘‘ d’ye 
think my kinswoman and me are gaun to lose our gude 
name wi’ cracking clavers wi’ the like o’ you or your 
prisoner either, without somebody by to see fair play 9 
Hegh, hegh, sirs, to see sic a difference between folk’s 
promises and performance ! Ye were aye willing to slight 
puir Cuddie ; but an I had asked him to oblige me in a 
thing, though it had been to cost his hanging, he wadna 
hae stude twice about it.” 

“ D — n Cuddie!” retorted the dragoon, “ he’ll be 
hanged in good earnest, I hope. I saw him to-day at 

Milnwood with his old puritanical b of a mother, 

and if I had thought I was to have had him cast in my 
dish, I would have brought him up at my horse’s tajl — 
we had law enough to bear us out.” 

“ Very weel, very weel — See if Cuddie winna hae* a 
lang shot at you ane o’ thae days, if ye gar him tak the 
muir wi’ sae mony honest folk. He can hit a mark 
brawly ; he was third at the popinjay ; and he’s as true 
of his promise as of ee and hand, though he disna mak 
sic a phrase, about it as some acquaintance o’ yours — 
But it’s a’ ane to me — Come, cousin, we’ll awa’.” 

Stay, Jenny ; d — n me, if I hang fire more than 
another when I have said a thing,” said the soldier ip a 
hesitating tone. “ Where is the sergeant 

“ Drinking and driving ower,” quoth Jenny, “ wi’ the 
steward and John Gudyill.’’ 

“ So, so — he’s safe enough — and where are my com- 
rades 9” asked Halliday. 

“ Birling the brown bowl wi’ the fowler and the fal- 
coner, and some o’ the serving folk.” 

‘‘ Have they plenty of ale 9” 

“ Sax gallons, as gude as e’er was masked,” said the 
maid. 

“ Well, then, my pretty Jenny,” said the relenting 
sentinel, “ they are fast till the hour of relieving guard, 


OLD MORTALITY. 


275 


and perhaps something later ; and so, if you will prom 
ise to come alone the next time” 

“ Maybe I will, and maybe I winna,” said Jenny . 
“ but if ye get the dollar, ye’ll like that just as week” 
I’ll be d — n’d if I do,” said Halliday, taking the 
money, however ; “ but it’s always something for my 
risk ; for, if Claverhouse hears what I have done, he will 
build me a horse as high as the Tower of Tillietudlem. 
But every one in the regiment takes what they can come 
by ; I am sure Bothwell and his blood-royal shows us a 
good example. And if I were trusting to you, you little 
jilting devil, I should lose both pains and powder ; w’hereas 
this fellow,” looking at the piece, “ will be good as far as 
he goes. So, come, there is the door open for you ; do 
not stay groaning and praying with the young whig now, 
but be ready, when I call at the door, to start as if they 
were sounding, ‘ Horse and away.’ ” 

So speaking, Halliday unlocked the door of the closet, 
admitted Jenny and her pretended kinswoman, locked it 
behind theni, and hastily reassumed the indifferent meas- 
ured step and time-killing whistle of a sentinel upon his 
regular duty. 

The door which slowly opened, discovered Morton with 
both arms reclined upon a table, and his head resting upon 
them in a posture of deep dejection. He raised his face 
as the door opened, and, perceiving the female figures 
which it admitted, started up in great surprise. Edith, 
as if modesty had quelled the courage which despair had 
bestowed, stood about a yard from the door without hav- 
ing either the power to speak or to advance. All the 
plans of aid, relief, or comfort, which she had proposed 
to lay before her lover, seemed at once to have vanished 
from her recollection, and left only a painful chaos of ideas, 
with which was mingled a fear that she had degraded her- 
self in the eyes of Morton by a step which might ap- 
pear precipitate and unfeminine. She hung motionless 
and almost powerless upon the arm of her attendant, who 
in vain endeavoured to reassure and inspire her with cour- 
age, by whispering, “ We :u r in now, madam, and we 


276 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


maun inak the best o’ our time ; for, doubtless, the cor- 
poral or the sergeant will gang the rounds, and it wad be 
a pity to hae the poor lad Halliday punished for his 
civility.” 

JMorton, in the mean time, was timidly advancing, sus- 
pecting the truth ; for what other female in the house, 
excepting Edith herself, was likely to take an interest in 
his misfortunes and yet afraid, owing to the doubtful 
twilight and the muffled dress, of making some mistake 
which might be prejudicial to the object of his affections. 
Jenny, wdiose ready wit and forward manners well quali- 
fied her for such an office, hastened to break the ice. 

“ Mr. Morton, Miss Edith’s very sorry for your present 
situation, and” 

It was needless to say more ; he was at her side, al- 
most at her feet, pressing her unresisting hands, and load- 
ing her with a profusion of thanks and gratitude which 
would be hardly intelligible from die mere broken words, 
unless we could describe the ‘one, the gesture, the im- 
passioned and hurried indications of deep and tumultuous 
feeling with which they were accompanied. 

For two or three minutes, Edith stood as motionless as 
the statue of a saint which receives the adoration of a 
worshipper ; and when she recovered herself sufficiently 
to withdraw her hands from Henry’s grasp, she could at 
first only faintly articulate, “ I. have taken a strange step, 
Mr. Morton — a step,” she continued with more coher- 
ence as her ideas arranged themselves in consequence of 
a strong effort, “ that perhaps may expose me to censure 
in your eyes — But I have long permitted you to use the 
language of friendship — perhaps I might say more — tor 
long to leave you when the world seems to have left you. 
How, or why is this imprisonment 9 what can be done ^ 
can my uncle who thinks so highly of you — can your own 
kinsman, Milnwood, be of no use ^ are there no means 
and what is likely to be the event 

“ Be what it will,” answered Henry, contriving to make 
himself master of the hand that-^had escaped from him, 
but which was now again abandoned to his clasp, “ be 


OLD MORTALITY. 


277 


what it will, it is to me from this moment the most wel- 
come incident of a weary life. To you, dearest Edith — 
forgive me, I should have said Miss Bellenden, but mis- 
fortune claims strange privileges — to you 1 have owed the 
few happy moments which have gilded a gloomy exist- 
ence ; and if I am now to lay it down, the recollection 
of this honour will be my happiness in the last hour of 
suffering.” 

“ But is it even thus, Mr. Morton ?” said Miss Bellen- 
den. “ Have you, who used to mix so little in these 
unhappy feuds, become so suddenly and deeply implicat- 
ed, that nothing short oP* 

She paused, unable to bring out the word which should 
have come next. 

Nothing short of my life you would say ?” replied 
Morton, in a calm but melancholy tone ; “I believe that 
will be entirely in the bosoms of my judges. My guards 
spoke of a possibility of exchanging the penalty for entry 
into foreign service. I thought 1 could have embraced 
the alternative j and yet. Miss Bellenden, since I have 
seen you once more, I feel that exile would be more gall- 
ing than death.” 

“ And is it then true,” said Edith, “ that you have been 
so desperately rash as to entertain communication with any 
of those cruel wretches who assassinated the primate 

“ I knew not even that such a crime had been commit- 
ted,” replied Morton, “ when 1 gave unhappily a night’s 
lodging and concealment to one of those rash and cruel 
men, the ancient friend and comrade of my father. But my 
‘gnorance will avail me little ; for who. Miss Bellenden, save 
you, will believe it ? And, what is worse, 1 am at least 
uncertain whether, even if I had known the crime, 1 could 
have brought my mind, under all the circumstances, to 
refuse a temporary refuge to the fugitive.” 

“ And by whom,” said Edith, anxiously, or under 
what authority wdll the investigation of your conduct take 
nlace 

“ Under that of Colonel Grahame of Claverhoiise, I 
am given to understand,” said Morton ; “ one of the mil- 
24 VOL. I. 


278 


TALES OF. MY LANDLORD. 


itary commission, to whom it has pleased our king, our 
privy council, and our parliament, that used to be 
more tenacious of our liberties, to commit the sole charge 
of our goods and of .our lives.” 

“ To Claverhouse ?” said Edith, faintly } “ merciful 
Heaven, you are lost ere you are tried*! He wrote to 
my grandmother that he was to be here to-morrow morn- 
ing, on his road to the head of the county, where some 
desperate men, animated by the presence of two or three 
of the actors in the primate’s murder, are said to have 
assembled for the purpose of making a stand against the 
government. His expressions made me shudder, even 
when 1 could not guess that — that — ^a friend” 

“ Do not be too much alarmed on my account, my 
dearest Edith,” said Henry, as he supported her in his 
arms ; “ Claverhouse, though stern and relentless, is by 
all accounts, brave, fair, and honourable. I am a soldier’s 
son, and will plead my cause like a soldier. He will per- 
haps listen more favourably to a blunt and unvarnished 
defence than a truckling and time-serving judge might do. 
And, indeed, in a time when justice is, in all its branches, 
so completely corrupted, I would rather lose my life by 
open military violence than be conjured out of it by the 
hocus-pocus of some arbitrary lawyer, who lends the 
knowledge he has of the statutes made for our protection, 
to wrest them to our destruction.” 

‘‘ You are lost^ — you are lost, if you are to plead your 
cause with Claverhouse !” sighed Edith ; “ root and 
branch-work is the mildest of his expressions. The 
unhappy primate was his intimate friend and early patron. 

‘ No excuse, no subterfuge,’ said his letter, ‘ shall save 
either those connected with the deed, or such as have given 
them countenance and shelter from tlie ample and bitter 
penalty of the law, until I shall have taken as many lives 
in vengeance of this atrocious murder, as the old man had 
grey hairs upon his venerable head.’ There is neither 
ruth nor favour to be found with him.” 

Jenny Dennison, who had hitherto remained silent, now 
rentured, in the extremity of distress, which the lovers 


OLD MORTALITY. 


279 


felt, but for which they were unable to devise a remedy, 
^o offer her own advice. 

“ Wi’ your leddyship’s pardon, Miss Edith, and young 
Mr. Morton’s we mauiina waste time. Let Milnwood 
take my plaid and gown ; I’ll slip them aff in the dark 
corner, if he’ll promise no to look about, and he may walk 
past Tam Halliday, who is half blind with his ale, and I 
can tell him a canny way to get out o’ the Tower, and 
your leddyship will gang quietly to your ain room, and I’ll 
row my sell in his grey cloak, and pit on his hat, and play 
the prisoner till the coast’s clear, and then I’ll cry in Tam 
Halliday and gar him let me out.” 

“ Let you out said Morton ; “ they’ll make your 
life answer it.” 

“ Ne’er a bit,” replied Jenny ; “ Tam daurna tell he 
let onybody in, for his ain sake ; and I’ll gar him find 
some other gate to account for the escape.” 

“ Will you, by G — said the sentinel suddenly open- 
ing the door of the apartment ; “ if I am half blind, J 
am not deaf, and you should not plan an escape quite so 
loud, if you expect to go through with it. Come, come, 
Mrs. Janet — march, troop — quick time — trot, d — n me • 
— And you, madam kinswoman, — I won’t ask your real 
name, though you were going to play me so rascally a 
trick, — but I must make a clear garrison ; so beat a re- 
treat, unless you would have me turn out the guard.” 

“ I hope,” said Morton, very anxiously, “ you will not 
mention this circumstance, my good friend, and trust to 
my honour to acknowledge your civility in keeping the 
secret. If you overheard our conversation, you must 
have observed that we did not accept of, or enter into, 
the hasty proposal made by this good-natured girl.” 

“ Oh, devilish good-natured, to be sure,” said Halliday. 
“ As for the rest, I guess how it is, and I scorn to bear 
malice, or tell tales, as much as another ; but no thanks 
to that little jilting devil, Jenny Dennison, who deserves 
a fight skelping for trying to lead an honest lad into a 
scrape, just because he was so silly as to like her good- 
tor-little chit face.” 


280 


'r A I , K S 0 F Si V L A N i; LO V o . 


Jenny had no better -means oP-jnslineation than the Iasi 
apology to which her sex ti-nst, and usually not in vain ; 
she pressed her handkerciiief to her face, sobbed with 
great vehemence, and either wept, or managed, as Halli- 
day might have said, to go through the motions wonder- 
fully well. 

“ And now,” continued the soldier, somewdiat mollifi- 
ed, “ if you have anything to say, say it in two minutes, 
and let me see your backs turned ; for if Bothwell take 
it into his drunken head to make the rounds half an hour 
too soon, it will be a black business to us all.” 

“ Farewell, Edith,” whispered IMorton, assuming a firm- 
ness he w^as far from possessing ; “ do not remain here — 
leave me to my fate — it cannot be beyond endurance 
since you are interested in it. — Good night, good night ! 
— Do not remain here till you are discovered.” 

Thus saying, he resigned her to her attendant, by whom 
she was quietly led and partly supported out of the apart- 
ment. 

“ Every one has his taste, to be sure,” said Halliday ; 
“ but d — n me if I would have vexed so sweet a girl as 
that is, for all the w^higs that ever swore the Covenant.” 

When Edith had regained her apartment, she gave way 
to a burst of grief which alarmed Jenny Dennison, who 
hastened to administer such scraps of consolation as oc- 
curred to her. 

“ Dinna vex yoursell sae muckle, Miss Edith,” said that 
faithful attendant ; “ wha kens what may happen to help 
young Milnwood f He’s a brave lad, and a bonny, and a 
gentleman of a good fortune, and they winna string the 
like o’ him up as they do the puir whig bodies that they 
catch in the muirs, like straps o’ onions; maybe his.uncle 
will bring him alf, or maybe your ain grand-uncle will 
speak a gude word for him — he’s weel acquent wi’ a’ the 
red-coat gentlemen.” 

“ You are right, Jenny ! you are right,” said Edith, 
recovering herself from the stiqior into which she had 
sunk ; “ this is thna for despair, but for exertion 


OLD MORTALITY. 


281 


Tou must find some one to ride this very night to my un- 
de’s with a letter.” 

“ To Charnwood, madam It’s unco late, and it’s sax 
miles an’ a bittock doun the water ; I doubt if we can 
find man an’ horse the night, mair especially as they hae 
mounted a sentinel before the gate. Puir Cuddie ! he’s 
gane, puir fallow, that wad hae dune aught in the warld I 
bade him, and ne’er asked a reason — an’ I’ve had nae 
time to draw up wi’ the new pleugh-lad yet ; forbye that, 
they say he’s gaun to be married to Meg Murdieson, ill- 
faur’d ciittie as she is.” 

“ You must find some .one to go, Jenny ; life and death 
depend upon it.” 

“ I wad gang mysell,my leddy, for I could creep out 
at the window o’ the pantry, and speel down by the auld 
yew-tree weel eneugh — I hae played that trick ere now. 
But the road’s unco wild, and sae mony red-coats about, 
forbye the whigs, that are no muckle better, (the young 
lads o’ them,) if they meet a fraim body their lane in the 
muirs. I wadna stand for the walk — I can walk ten miles 
by moonlight weel eneugh.” 

“ Is there no one you can think of, that, for money 
or favour, would serve me so far ?” asked Edith, in great 
anxiety. 

“ I dinna ken,” said Jenny, after a moment’s consider- 
ation, “ unless it be Guse Gibbie ; and he’ll maybe no 
ken the w^ay, though it’s no sae diificult to hit, if he keep 
the horse-road, and mind the turn at the Cappercleugh, 
and dinna drown himself in the Whomlekirn-pule, or fa’ 
ower the scaur at the Deil’s Loaning, or miss ony o’ the 
kittle steps at the Pass o’ Walkwary, or be carried to the 
hills by the whigs, or be ta’en to the tolbooth by the red- 
coats.” 

“ All ventures must be run,” said Edith, cutting short 
the list of chances against Goose Gibbie’s safe ai rival at 
the end of his pilgrimage ; “ all risks must be run, un- 
less you can find a better messenger. — Go, bid the boy 
get ready, and get him out of the Tower as secretly ns 
24 * VOL. I. 


282 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


you can. If he meets any one, let him say he is carrying 
a letter to Major Bellenden of Charnwood, but without 
mentioning any names.” 

“ I understand, madam,” said Jenny Dennison ; “ 1 
warrant the callant will do weel enough, and Tib the hen- 
wife will tak care- o’ the geese for a word o’ my mouth ; 
and I’ll tell Gibbie your leddyship will mak his peace wi’ 
Lady Margaret, and we’ll gie him a dollar.” 

“ Two, if he does his errand well,” said Edith. 

Jenny departed to rouse Goose Gibbie out of his slum- 
bers, to which he was usually consigned at sun-down, or 
shortly after, he keeping the hours of the birds under hia 
charge. During her absence, Edith took her writing 
materials, and prepared against her return the following 
letter, superscribed. For the hands of Major Bellenden 
of Charnwood, my much honoured uncle. These : 

‘‘ My dear uncle — this will serve to inform you, I am 
desirous to know how your gout is, as we did not see you 
at the wappen-schaw, which made both my grandmother 
and myself very uneasy. And if it will permit you to 
travel, weshallbe happy to see you at our poor house to- 
morrow at the hour of breakfast, as Colonel Grahame of 
Claverhouse is to pass this way on his march, and we 
would willingly have your assistance to receive and en- 
tertain a military man of such distinction, who, probably, 
will not be much delighted with the company of women. 
Also, my dear uncle, 1 pray you to let Mrs.Carefor’t,your 
housekeeper, send me my double-trimmed paduasoy with 
the hanging sleeves, which she will find in the third draw- 
er of the walnut press in the green room, which you are 
so kind as to call mine. Also, my dear uncle, J pray you 
to send me the second volume of the Grand Cyrus, as 1 
have only read as far as the imprisonment of Philidaspes 
upon the seven hundredth and thirty-third page ; but, 
above all, I entreat you to come to us to-morrow before 
eight of the clock, which, as your pacing nag is so good, 
you may well do without rising before your usual hour 


OLD MORTALITY. 


283 


So, praying to God to preserve your health, I rest your 
dutiful and loving niece, Edith Bellenden. 

“ Postscriptum. A party of soldiers have last night 
brought your friend, young Mr. Henry Morton of Miln- 
wood, hither as a prisoner. I conclude you will be sorry 
for the young gentleman, and, therefore, let you know 
this, in case you may think of speaking to Colonel Gra- 
hame in his behalf. I have not mentioned his name to 
my grandmother, knowing her prejudice against the family. 

This epistle being duly sealed and delivered to Jenny, 
that faithful confidante hastened to put the same in the 
charge of Goose Gibbie, whom she found in readiness to 
start from the castle. She then gave him various instruc- 
tions touching the road, which she apprehended he was 
likely to mistake, not having travelled it above five or six 
times, and possessing only the same slender proportion of 
memory as of judgment. Lastly, she smuggled him out 
of the garrison through the pantry window into the branchy 
yew-tree which grew close beside it, and had the satis- 
faction to see him reach the bottom in safety, and take 
the right turn at the commencement of his journey. She 
then returned to persuade her young mistress to go to t|ed, 
and to lull her to rest, if possible, with assurances of Gib- 
bie’s success in his embassy, only qualified by a passing 
regret that the trusty Cuddie, with whom the commission 
might have been more safely reposed, was no longer with- 
in reach of serving her. 

More fortunate as a messenger than as a cavalier, it 
was Gibbie’s good hap, rather than his good management, 
which, after he had gone astray not oftener than nine 
dmes, and given his garments a taste of the variation of 
each bog, brook, and slough, between Tillietudlem and 
Charnwood, placed him about day-break before the gate 
of Major Bellenden’s mansion, having completed a w^k 
of ten miles (for the bittock, as usual, amounted to four) 
in little more than the same number of hours. 


284 


TAXES OF MY XANDXORD, 


CHAPTER XL 

At last comes the troop, by the word of command 
Drawn up in our court, where the captain cries, stdnd ! 

Swift. 

Major Bellenden’s ancient valet Gideon Pike, as he 
adjusted his master’s clothes by his bed-side, preparatory 
to the worthy veteran’s toilet, acquainted him, as an apol- 
ogy for disturbing him an hour earlier than his usual time 
of rising, that there was an express from Tillietudlem. 

“ From Tillietudlem T’ said the old gentleman, rising 
hastily in his bed, and sitting bolt upright, — “ Open the 
shutters. Pike — I hope my sister-in-law is well — furl up 
the bed-curtain. — What have we all here (glancing at 
Edith’s note.) “ The gout ^ why, she knows I have not 
had a fit since Candlemas. — The wappen-schaw 1 told 
her a month since I was not to be there. — Paduasoy and 
hanging sleeves why, hang the gipsy herself ! — Grand 
Cyrus and Philipdastus — Philip Devil!— is the wench gone 
crazy all at once ^ was it worth while to send an express 
and wake me at five in the morning for all this trash — 
But what says her postscriptum IMercy on us !” he ex- 
claimed on perusing it, — “ Pike, saddle old Kilsythe in- 
stantly, and another horse for yourself.” 

“ I hope nae ill news frae the Tower, sir said Pike, 
astonished at his master’s sudden emotion. 

“ Yes — no — yes— that is, I must meet Claverhouse 
there on some express business ; so boot and saddle, Pike, 
as fast as you can. — O, Lord 1 what times are these ! — 
the poor lad — my old cronie’s son ! — and the silly wench 
sticks it into her postscriptum, as she calls it, at the tad 
of this trumpery about old gowns and new romances !” 

In a few minutes the good old officer was fully equip- 
ped ; and, having mounted upon his arm-gaunt charger 


0M> MOUTAIilTY. 


285 * 


as soberly as Mark Antony himself could have done, he 
oaced forth his way to the Tower of Tillietudlem. 

On the road he formed the prudent resolution to say 
nothing to the old lady, (whose dislike to presbyterians of 
all kinds he knew to be inveterate,) of the quality and 
rank of the prisoner detained within her walls, but to try 
his own influence with Claverhouse to obtain Morton’s 
liberation. 

“ Being so loyal as he is, he must do something for so 
old a cavalier as I am,” said the veteran to himself ; 
“ and if he is so good a soldier as the world speaks of, 
why, he will be glad to serve an old soldier’s son. I never 
knew a real soldier that was not a frank-hearted, honest 
fellow ; and I think the execution of the laws (though it’s 
a pity they find it necessary to make them -so severe) may 
be a thousand times better intrusted with them than with 
peddling lawyers and thick-skulled country gentlemen.” 

Such were the ruminations of Major Miles Bellenden, 
which were terminated by John Gudyill (not more than 
half-drunk) taking hold of his bridle, and assisting him to 
dismount in the rough paved court of Tillietudlem. 

“ Why, John,” said the veteran, ‘‘ what devil of a dis- 
cipline’ is this you h^e been keeping ? You have been 
reading Geneva print ih# morning already.” 

“ I have been reading the Litany,” said John, shaking 
his head with a look of drunken gravity, and having only 
caught one word of the major’s address to him ; “ life is 
short, sir ; we are flowers of the field, sir, — hiccup — and 
lilies of the valley.” 

“ Flowers and lilies ? why, man, such carles as thou 
and I call hardly be called better than old hemlocks, de- 
cayed nettles, or withered rag-we^d ; but I suppose you 
think that we are still worth watering.” 

“ I am an old soldier, sir, I thank Heaven” — hiccup — 

“ An old skinker )^u mean, John. But, come, never 
mind, show me the way to your mistress, old lad.” 

John Gudyill led the way to the stone-hall, where Lady 
Margaret was fidgetting about, superintending, arranging, 
and re-forming the preparatibns made for the reception 


S86 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


of the celebrated Claverhouse, whom one party honoured 
and extolk'd as a hero, and another execrated as a blood- 
thirsty oppressor. 

“ Did I not tell you,” said Lady Margaret to her prin- 
'cipal female attendant — “ did I not tell you, Mysie, that 
it was my especial pleasure on this occasion to have every 
thing in the precise order wherein it was upon that fa- 
mous morning when his most sacred majesty partook of 
his disjune at Tillietudlem f” 

“ Doubtless, such were your leddyship’s commands, 
and to the best of my remembrance” — was Mysie an- 
swering, when her ladyship broke in with, “ Then where- 
fore is the venison pasty placed on the left side of the 
throne, and the stoup of claret upon the right, when ye 
may right weel* remember, Mysie, that his most sacred 
majesty with his ain hand shifted the pasty to the same 
side with the flagon, and said they were too good friends 
to be parted ?” 

“ I mind that weel, madam,” said Mysie ; “ and if 1 
had forgot, I have heard your leddyship often speak about 
that grand morning sin’ syne 5 but I thought everything 
was to be placed just as it was when his majesty, God 
bless him, came into this room, tekjjg mair like an angel 
than a man, if he hadna been sa*black-a- vised.” 

“ Then ye thought nonsense, Mysie ; for in whatever 
Way his most sacred majesty ordered the position of the 
trenchers and flagons, that, as weel as his royal pleasure 
in greater matters, should be a law to his subjects, and 
shall ever be to those of the house of Tillietudlem.^’ 

“ Weel, madam,” said Mysie, making the alterations 
required, “ it’s easy mending the error ; but if evel*y thing 
is just to be as his maje*sty left it, there should be an unco 
hole in the venison pasty.” 

At this moment the door opened. 

“ Who is that, John^udyill exilaimed the old lady. 
“ I can speak to no one just now. — Is it you, my dear 
brother she continued, in some surprise, as the Major 
entered 5 “ this is a right early visit.” 


OLD MORTALITY. 


2B7 


“ Not more early than welcome, I hope,” replied Ma- 
jor Bellenden, as he saluted the widow of his deceased 
orother ; “ but I heard by a note which Edith sent to 
Charnwood about some of her equipage and books, that 
you w^ere to have Claver’se here this morning, so I thought, 
like an old firelock as I am, that I should like to have a 
a chat with this rising soldier. I caused Pike saddle Kil- 
ytlie, and here we both are.” 

“ And most kindly welcome you are,” said the old lady ; 
“ it is just what I should have prayed you to do, if I had 
thought there was time. You see I am busy in prepara- 
tion. All is to bo in the same order as when” 

“ The King breakfasted atTillietudlem,” said the Ma- 
jor, who, like all Lady Margaret’s friends, dreaded the 
commencement of that narrative, and was desirous to cut 
it short, — “ I remember it well ; you know I was waiting 
on his majesty.” 

“ You were, brother,” said Lady Margaret ; “ and 
perhaps you can help me to remember the order of the 
entertainment.” 

“ Nay, good sooth,” said the Major^ “ the damnable 
dinner that Noll gave us at Worcester a few days after- 
wards, drove all your good cheer out of my memory. — 
But how’s this 9 — you have even the great Turkey-leather 
elbow-chair, with the tapestry cushions placed in state.” 

“ The throne, brother, if you please,” said Lady Mar- 
garet, gravely. 

‘‘ Well, the throne be it, then,” continued the Major. 
“ Is that to be Claver’se’s post in the attack upon the 
pasty ?” 

“ No, brother,” said the lady ; “ as these cushions have 
been once honoured by accommodating the person of our 
most sacred monarch, they shall never, please Heaven, 
during my life-time, be pressed by any less dignified 
weight.” 

“ You should not then,” said the old soldier, “ put them 
in the way of an honest old cavalier, who has ridden ten 
miles before breakfast ; for, to confess the truth, they look 
very inviting. But where is Edith ^ 


288 


TALES or MY LANDLORD. 


On the battlements of the warder’s turret,” answer- 
ed the old lady, “ looking out for the approach of our 
guests.” 

“ Why, I’ll go there too ; and so should you. Lady 
Margaret, as soon as you have your line of battle properly 
formed in the hall here. It’s a pretty thing, I can tell 
you, to see a regiment of horse upon the march.” 

Thus speaking, he offered his arm with an air of old- 
fashioned gallantry, which Lady Margaret accepted with 
such a courtesy of acknowledgment as ladies were wont 
to make in Holyrood-house before the year 1642, which, 
for one while, drove both courtesies and courts out ol 
fashion^ 

Upon the bartizan of the turret, to which they ascend- 
ed by many a winding passage and uncouth staircase, they 
found Edith, not in the attitude of a young lady who 
watches with fluttering curiosity the approach of a smart 
regiment of dragoons, but pale, downcast, and evincing, by 
her countenance, that sleep had not, during the preceding 
night, been the companion of her pillow. The good old 
veteran was hurt at her appearance, which, in the hurry 
of preparation, her grandmother had omitted to notice. 

“ What is come over you, you silly girl ?” he said ; 
“ why, you look like an officer’s wife when she opens the 
News-letter after an action, and expects to find her hus- 
band among the killed and wounded. But I know the 
reason — you will persist in reading these nonsensical ro- 
mances, day and night, and whimpering for distresses that 
never existed. Why, how the devil can you believe that 
Artamines, or what d’ye call him, fought single-handed 
with a whole battalion One to three is as great odds as 
ever fought and won, and I never knew anybody that 
cared to take that except old Corporal Raddlebanes. But 
these d — d books put all pretty men’s actions out of coun- 
tenance. I dare say you would think very little of Rad- 
dlebanes, if he were along-side of Artamines. — I would 
have the fellows that write such nonsense brought to. the 
pic^uet for leasing-making.” 


OLD MORTALITY. 


S89 


Lady Margaret, herself somewhat attached to the pe« 
rusal of romances, took up the cudgels. 

“ Monsieur Scuderi,” she said, “ is a soldier, brother ^ 
and, as I have heard, a complete one, and so is the Sieur 
D’Urfe.” 

“ More shame for them ; they should have known bet- 
ter what they were writing about. For my part, I have 
not read a book these twenty years, except my Bible, The 
Whole Duty of Man, and, of late days. Turner’s Pallas 
Armata, or Treatise on the Ordering of the Pike Exer- 
cise^^nd I don’t like his discipline much neither. He 
wants to draw up the cavalry in front of a stand of pikes, 
instead of being upon the wings. Sure am I, if we had 
done so at Kilsythe, instead of having our handful of 
horse on the flanks, the first discharge would have sent 
them back among our Highlanders. — But 1 hear the ket- 
tle-drums.” 

All heads were now bent from the battlements of the 
turret, which commanded a distant prospect down the 
vale of the river. The Tower of Tillietudlem stood, or 
perhaps yet stands, upon the angle of a very precipitous 
bank, formed, by the junction of a considerable brook 
with the Clyde. There w'as a narrow bridge of one steep 
arch, across the brook near its mouth, over which, and 
along the foot of the high and broken bank, winded the 
public road ; and the fortalice, thus commanding both 
bridge and pass, had been, in times of war, a post of con- 
siderable importance, the possession of which was neces- 
sary to secure the communication of the upper and wilder 
districts of the country with those beneath, where the val- 
ley expands, and is more capable of cultivation. The 
view downwards is of a grand woodland character ; but 
ilie level ground dnd gentle slopes near the river form 
cultivated fields of an irregular shape interspersed with 
hedge-row trees and copses, the inclosures seeming to 
have been individually cleared Out of the forest which 
surrounds them, and which occupies, in unbroken masses, 
the steeper declivities and more distant banks. The 
25 VOL. I. 


290 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


Stream, in colour a clear and sparkling brown, like the hue 
of the cairngorm pebbles, rushes through this romantic 
region in bold sweeps and curves, partly visible and partly 
concealed by the trees which clothe its banks. With a 
providence unknown in other parts of Scotland, the peas- 
ants have, in most places, planted orchards around their 
cottages, and the general blossom of the apple-trees at 
this season of the year gave all the lower part of the view 
the appearance of a flower-garden. 

Looking up the river, the character of the scene was 
varied considerably for the worse. A hilly, waste, and 
uncultivated country approached close to the banks ; the 
trees were few, and limited to the neighbourhood of the 
stream, and the rude moors swelled at a little distance into 
shapeless and heavy hills, which were again surmounted 
in their turn by a range of lofty mountains, dimly seen on 
the horizon. Thus the Tower commanded two prospects, 
the one richly cultivated and highly adorned, the other 
exhibiting the monotonous and dreary character of a wild 
and inhospitable moorland. 

The eyes of the spectators on the present occasion were 
attracted to the downward view, not alone by its superior 
beauty, but because the distant sounds of military music 
Degan to be heard from the public high-road which wind- 
ed up the vale, and announced the approach of the ex- 
pected body of cavalry. Their glimmering ranks were 
shortly afterwards seen in the distance, appearing and dis- 
appearing as the trees and the windings of the road per- 
mitted them to be visible, and distinguished chiefly by the 
flashes of light which their arms occasionally reflected 
against the sun. The train was long and imposing, for 
there were about two hundred and fifty horse upon the 
march, and the glancing of the swords and waving of their 
banners, joined to the clang of their trumpets and kettle- 
drums, had at once a lively and awful effect upon the im- 
agination. As they advanced still nearer and nearer, they 
could distinctly see the files of those chosen troops fol- 
lowing each other in long succession, completely equip- 
ped and superbly mounted. 


OLD MORTALITY. 


291 


‘‘ It’s a sight that makes me thirty years younger,” said 
the old cavalier, “ and yet I do not much like the service 
that these poor fellows are to be engaged in. Although I 
had my share of the civil war, I cannot say I had ever so 
much real pleasure in that sort of service as when I was 
employed on the Continent, and we were hacking at fel- 
lows with foreign faces and outlandish dialect. It’s a 
hard thing to hear a hamely Scotch tongue cry quarter, 
and be obliged to cut him down just the same as if he 
called out misericordc. — So, there they come through the 
Netherwood haugh ; upon my word, fine-looking fellows, 
and capitally mounted. — He that is galloping from the 
rear of the column must be Claver’se himself ; — ay, he 
gets into the front as they cross the bridge, and now they- 
will be with us in less than five minutes.” 

At the bridge beneath the Tower the cavalry divided, 
and the greater part, moving up the left bank of the brook 
and crossing at a ford a little above, took the road of the 
Grange, as it was called, a large set of farm-offices be- 
longing to the Tower, where Lady Margaret had ordered 
preparation to be made for their reception and suitable 
entertainment. The officers alone, v/ith their colours and 
an escort to guard them, were seen to take the steep road 
up to the gate of the Tower, appearing by intervals as they 
gained the'ascent, and again hidden by projections of the 
bank and of the huge old trees with which it is covered. 
When they emerged from this narrow path, they found 
themselves in front of the old Tower, the gates of which 
were hospitably open for their reception. Lady Marga- 
ret, with Edith and her brother-in-law, having hastily de- 
scended from their post of observation, appeared to meet 
and to welcome their guests, with a retinue of domestics 
in as good order as the orgies of the preceding evening 
permitted. The gallant young cornet (a relation as w'ell 
as namesake of Claverhouse, with whom the reader has 
been already made acquainted) lowered the standard 
amid the fanfare of the trumpets, in homage to the rank 
of Lady Margaret and the charms of her graud-daughter, 


292 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


3nd the old walls echoed to the flourish of the instruments 
and the stamp and neigh of the chargers. 

Claverhouse^^himself alighted from a black horse, the 
most beautiful perhaps in Scotland. He had not a single 
white hair upon his whole body, a circumstance, which, 
joined to his spirit and fleetness, and to his being so fre- 
quently employed in pursuit of the presbyterian recusants, 
caused an opinion to pret^ail among them, that the steed 
had been presented to his rider by the great Enemy of 
Mankind in order to assist him in persecuting the fugitive 
wanderers. When Claverhouse had paid his respects to 
the ladies with military politeness, had apologized for the 
trouble to which he was putting Lady Margaret’s family, 
and had received the corresponding assurances that she 
could not think anything an inconvenience which brought 
within the- walls of Tillietudlem so distinguished a soldier, 
and so loyal a servant of his sacred majesty ; when, in 
short, all forms of hospitable and polite ritual had been 
duly complied with, the Colonel requested permission to 
receive the report of Both well, who was now in attend- 
ance, and with whom he spoke apart for a few minutes. 
Major Bellenden took that opportunity to say to his neice, 
without the hearing of her grandmother, ‘‘ What aVifling 
foolish girl you are, Edith, to send me by express a letter 
crammed with nonsense about books and gowns, and to 
slide the only thing I cared a marvedie about into the 
postscript.” 

“ I did not know,” said Edith, hesitating very much, 
“ whether it would be quite — quite proper for me to” 

“ I know what you would say — whether it would be 
right to take any interest in a presbyterian. But I knew 
this lad’s father well. He was a brave soldier ; and,- ii 
he was once wrong, he was once right too. I must com- 
mend your caution, Edith, for having said nothing of this 
young gentleman’s affair to your grandmother — you may 
rely oiv it 1 shall not — I will take an opportunity to speak 
to Claver’se. Come, my love, they are going to break 
fast. Let ug follow them.” 


OXD MORTALITY. 


293 


CHAPTER Xn. 

Their breakfast so warm to be sure they did eat, 
A custom in travellers mighty discreet. 

Prior. 


The breakfast of Lady Margaret Bellenden no more 
resembled a modern dejune, than the great stone-hall at 
Tillietudlem could brook comparison with a modern draw- 
ing-room. No tea, no coffee, no variety of rolls, but 
solid and substantial viands, — the priestly ham, the knight- 
ly sirloin, the noble baron of beef, the princely venison 
pasty ; while silver flagons, saved with difficulty from the 
claws of the Covenanters, now mantled, some with ale, 
some with mead, and some with generous wine of various 
qualities and descriptions. The appetites of the guests 
were in correspondence to the magnificence and solidity 
of the preparation — no piddling — no boys’-play, but that 
steady and persevering exercise of the jaws which is best 
learned by early morning hours, and by occasional hard 
commons. 

Lady Margaret beheld with delight the cates which she 
had provided descending with such alacrity into the per- 
sons of her honoured guests, and had little occasion to 
exercise, with respect to any of the company saving Cla- 
verhouse himself, the compulsory urgency of pressing to 
eat, to which, as to the peine forte et dure, the ladies of 
that period were in the custom of subjecting their guests. 

But the leader himself, more anxious to pay courtesy 
to Miss Bellenden, next whom he was placed, than to 
gratify his appetite, appeared somewhat negligent of the 
good cheer set before him. Edith heard, without reply, 
many courtly speeches addressed to her in a tone of voice 
of that happy modulation which could alike melt in the 
low tones of interesting conversation, and rise amid the 
25* VOL I 


294 


TALES or MY LANDLORD. 


din of battle, “ loud as a trumpet with a silver sound.” 
The sense that she was in the presence of the dreadful 
chief upon whose fiat the fate of Henry Morton must de- 
pend — the recollection of the terror and awe which were 
attached to the very name of the commander, deprived 
her for some time, not only of the courage to answer, but 
even of the power of looking upon him. But when, em- 
boldened by the soothing tones of his voice, she lifted her 
eyes to frame some reply, the person on whom she look- 
ed bore, in his appearance at least,- none of the terrible 
attributes in which her apprehensions had arrayed him. 

Grahame of Claverhouse was in thu prime of life, rather 
low of stature, and slightly, though elegantly, formed ; 
his gesture, language, and manners, were those of one 
whose life had been spent among the noble and the gay. 
His features exhibited even feminine regularity. An oval 
face, a straight and well-formed nose, dark hazel eyes, a 
complexion just sufficiently tinged with brown to save it 
from the charge of effeminacy, a short upper lip, curved 
upward like that of a Grecian statue, and slightly shaded 
by small mustachios of light-brown, joined to a profusion 
of long curled locks of the same colour, which fell down 
on each side of his face, contributed to form such a coun- 
tenance as limners love to paint and ladies to look upon. 

The severity of his character, as well as the higher at- 
tributes of undaunted and enterprizing valour which even 
his enemies were compelled to admit, lay concealed un- 
der an exterior which seemed adapted to the court or the 
saloon rather tha'n to the field. The same gentleness and 
gaiety of expression which reigned in his features seemed 
to inspire his actions and gestures ; and, on the whole, 
he was generally esteemed, at first sight, rather qualified 
to be the votary of pleasure than of ambition. But under 
this soft exterior was hidden a spirit unbounded in daring 
and in aspiring, yet cautious and prudent as that of Ma- 
chiavel himself. Profound in politics, and imbued, of 
course, with that disregard for individual rights which its 
intrigues usually generate, this leader was cool and col- 
lected in danger, fierce and ardent in pursuing success, 


OLD MORTALITY. 


295 


careless of facing death himself, and ruthless in inflicting it 
upon others. Such are the characters formed in times of 
civil discord, when the highest qualities, perverted by party 
spirit, and inflamed by habitual opposition, are too often 
combined with vices and excesses which deprive them at 
once of their merit and of their lustre. 

^In endeavouring to reply to the polite trifles with which 
ClaverhoLise accosted her, Edith showed so much confu- 
sion, that her grandmother thought it necessary to come 
to her relief. 

“ Edith Bellenden,” said the old lady, has, from my 
retired mode of living, seen so little of those of her own 
sphere, that truly she can hardly frame her speech to 
suitable answers. A soldier is so rare a sight with us, 
Colonel Grahame, that unless it be my young Lord Evan- 
dale, we have hardly had an opportunity of receiving a 
gentleman in uniform. And, now I talk of that excellent 
young nobleman, may I inquire if I was not to have had 
the honour of seeing him this morning with the regiment 
“ Lord Evandale, madam, was on his march with us,” 
answered the leader, “ but I was obliged to detach him 
with a small party to disperse a conventicle of those trou- 
blesome scoundrels v^o have had the impudence to as- 
semble within five miles of my head-quarters.” 

“ Indeed !” said the old lady ; “ that is a height of 
presumption to which I would have thought no rebellious 
fanatics would have ventured to aspire. But these are 
strange times ! There is an evil spirit in the land. Colo- 
nel Grahame, that excites the vassals of persons of rank 
to rebel against the very house that holds and feeds them. 
There was one of my able-bodied men the other day who 
plainly refused to attend the wappen-schaw at my bidding. 
Is there no law for such recusancy. Colonel Grahame T’ 
“ I think I could find one,” said Claverhouse, with 
great composure, “ if your ladyship will inform me of the 
name and residence of the culprit 9” 

“ His name,” said Lady Margaret, ‘‘ is Cuthbert Headr 
rigg ; I can say nothing of his domicile, for ye may weel 
believe. Colonel Grahame, he did not dwell long in Til 


296 


TALES or MY LANDLORD. 


lietudlem, but was speedily expelled for his contuniacy. I 
wish the lad no severe bodily injury ; but incarceration, or 
even a few stripes, would be a good example in this neigh- 
bourhood. His mother, under whose influence I doubt he 
acted, is an ancient domestic of this family, which makes 
me incline to mercy; although,” continued the old lady, 
looking towards the pictures of her husband and her sons, 
with which the wall was hung, and heaving at the same 
time, a deep sigh, “ I, Colonel Grahame, have in rny ain 
person but little right to compassionate that stubborn and 
rebellious generation. They have made me a childless 
widow, and, but for the protection of our sacred sovereign 
and his gallant soldiers, they would soon deprive me of 
landsand goods, of hearth and altar. Seven of my tenants, 
whose joint rent-mail may mount to well nigh a hundred 
merks, have already refused to pay either cess or rent, 
and had the assurance to tell my steward that they would 
acknowledge neither king flor landlord but who should 
have taken the Covenant.” 

“ 1 will take a course with them — that is, with your 
ladyship’s permission,” answered Claverhouse ; “ it 
would ill become me to neglect the support of lawful au- 
thority when it is lodged in such worthy hands as those of 
Lady Margaret Bellenden. But I must needs say this 
country grows worse and worse daily, and reduces me to 
the necessity of taking measures wdth the recusants that 
are much more consonant with my duty than with my in- 
clinations. And, speaking of this, I must not forget that 
1 have to thank your ladyship for the hospitality you have 
been pleased to extend to a party of mine who have 
brought in a prisoner, charged with having resetted^^the 
murdering villain, Balfour of Burley.” 

“ The house of Tillietudlem,” answered the lady 
“ hath ever been open to the servants of his majesty, and 
I hope that the stones of it will no longer rest on each 
other when it surceases to be as much at their command 
as at ours. And this reminds me. Colonel Grahame, that 
the gentleman who commands the party can hardly be 
said to be in his proper place in the army, considering 


OLD MORTALITY. 


297 


whose blood flows in his veins ; and if I might flatter my* 
self that anything would be granted to my request, I would 
presume to ^ntreat that he might be promoted on some 
favourable opportunity.” 

“ Your ladyship means Sergeant Francis Stuart, whom 
we call Bothwell said Claverhouse, smiling. “ Tlie 
truth is, he is a little too rough in the country, and has 
not been uniformly so amenable to discipline as the rules 
of the service require. But to instruct me how to oblige 
Lady Margaret Bellenden is to lay down the law to me 
— Bothwell,” he continued, addressing the sergeant who 
just then appeared at the door, “ go kiss Lady Margaret 
Bellenden’s hand, who interests herself in your promotion, 
and you shall have a commission the first vacancy.” 

Bothwell went through the salutation in the manner pre- 
scribed, but not without evident marks of haughty reluct- 
ance, and, when he had done so, said aloud, “ To kiss a 
lady’s hand can never disgrace a gentleman ; but I would 
not kiss a man’s, save the King’s, to be made a general.” 

“ You hear him,” said Claverhouse, smiling, “ there’s 
the rock he splits upon ; he cannot forget his pedigree.” 

know, my noble colonel,” said Bothwell in the same 
tone, “ that you will not forget your promise ; and then, 
perhaps, you may permit Cornet Stuart to have some 
recollection of his grandfather, though the sergeant must 
forget him.” 

“ Enough of this, sir,” said Claverhouse, in the tone 
of command which was familiar to him, “ and let* me 
know what you came to report to me just now.” 

“ My Lord Evandale and his party have halted on the 
high-road with some prisoners,” said Bothwell. 

“ My Lord Evandale T’ said Lady Margaret. “ Sure- 
ly, Colonel Grahame, you will permit him to honour me 
with his society, and to take his poor disjune here, espe- 
cially considering, that even his most sacred majesty did 
not pass the Tower of Tillietudlem without halting to par- 
take of some refreshment.” 

As this was the third time in the course of the conver- 
sation that Lady Margaret had adverted to this distinguish- 


298 


TALES OE MY LANDLORD. 


ed event, Colonel Grahame, as speedily as politeness would 
permit, took advantage of the first pause to interrupt the 
farther progress of the narrative, by saying, “We are 
already too numerous a party of guests ; but as I knov\ 
what Lord Evandale will suffer (looking towards Edith) 
if deprived of the pleasure which we enjoy, I will run the 
risk of overburdening your ladyship’s hospitality. — Both- 
well, let Lord Evandale know that Lady Margaret Bel- 
lenden requests the honour of his company.” 

“ And let Harrison take care,” added Lady Margaret, 
“ that the people and their horses are suitably seen to.” 

Edith’s heart sprung to her lips during this conversation, 
for it instantly occurred to her, that through her influence 
over Lord Evandale, she might find some means of re- 
leasing Morton from his present state of danger, in case 
her uncle’s intercession with Claverhouse should prove 
ineffectual. At any other time, she would have been 
much averse to exert this influence ; for, however inex- 
perienced in the world, her native delicacy taught her the 
advantage which a beautiful young woman gives to a young 
man when she permits him to lay her under an obligation. 
And she would have been the farther disinclined to re- 
quest any favour of Lord Evandale, because the voice of 
the gossips in Clydesdale had, for reasons hereafter to be 
made known, assigned him to her as a suitor, and because 
she could not disguise from herself that very little encour- 
agement was necessary to realize conjectures which had 
hitherto no foundation. This was the more to be dread- 
ed, that, in the case of Lord Evandale’s making a formal 
declaration, he had every chance of being supported by 
the influence of Lady Margaret and her other friends, 
and that she would have nothing to oppose to their so- 
licitations and authority, except a predilection, to avow 
which she knew would be equally dangerous and unavail- 
ing. She determined, therefore, to wait the issue of her 
uncle’s intercession, and, should it fail, which she conjec- 
tured she should soon learn, either from the looks or lan- 
guage of the open-hearted veteran, she would then, as a 
last effort, make use in Morton’s favour of her interest 


OLD MORTALITY. 


299 


with Lord Evandale. Her mind did not long remain in 
suspense on the subject of her uncle’s application 

Major Bellenden, who had done the honours of the 
table, laughing and chatting with the military guests who 
were at that end of the board, was now, by the conclusion 
of the repast, at liberty to leave his station, and accord- 
ingly took an opportunity to approach Claverhouse, re- 
questing from his niece, at the same time, the honour of 
a particular introduction. As his name and character 
were well known, the two military men met with expres- 
sions of mutual regard ; and Edith, with a beating heart, 
saw her aged relative withdraw from the company, togeth- 
er with his new acquaintance, into a recess formed by one 
of the arched windows of the hall. She watched their 
conference with eyes almost dazzled by the eagerness of 
suspense, and, with observation rendered more acute by 
the internal agony of her mind, could guess, from the 
pantomimic gestures which accompanied the conversation, 
the progress and fate of the intercession in behalf of Hen- 
ry Morton. 

The first expression of the countenance of Claverhouse 
betokened that open and willing courtesy, which ere it 
requires to know the nature of the favour asked, seems to 
say, how happy the party will be to confer an obligation 
on the suppliant. But as the conversation proceeded, 
the brow of that officer became darker and more severe, 
and his features, though still retaining the expression of 
the most perfect politeness, assumed, at least to Edith’s 
terrified imagination, a harsh and inexorable character. 
His lip was now compressed as if with impatience ; now 
curled slightly upward, as if* in civil contempt of the ar- 
guments urged by Major Bellenden. The language of 
her uncle, as far as expressed in his manner, appeared to 
be that of earnest intercession, urged with all the affec- 
tionate simplicity of his character, as well as with the 
weight which his age and reputation entitled him to use. 
But it seemed to have little impression upon Colonel Gra- 
hame, who soon changed his posture, as if about to cut 
short the Major’s importunity, and to break up their con- 


300 


TALES or MY LANDLORD. 


ference with a courtly expression of regret, calculated to 
accompany a positive refusal of the request solicited. 
This movement brought them so near Edith, that she could 
distinctly hear Claverhouse say, “ It cannot be. Major 
Bellenden ; lenity, in his case, is altogether beyond the 
bounds of my commission, though in anything else I am 
so heartily desirous to oblige you. — And here comes 
Evandale with news, as I think. — What tidings do you 
bring us, Evandale he continued, addressing the young 
lord, who now entered in complete uniform, but with his 
dress disordered, and his boots spattered as if by riding 
hard. 

“ Unpleasant news, sir,” was his reply. “ A large body 
of whigs are in arms among the hills, and have broken 
out into actual rebellion. They have publicly burnt the 
Act of Supremacy, that which established episcopacy, 
that for observing.the martyrdom of Charles I., and some 
others, and have declared their intention to remain togeth- 
er in arms for furthering the covenanted work of refor- 
mation.” 

This unexpected intelligence struck a sudden and pain- 
ful surprise into the minds of all who heard it, excepting 
Claverhouse. 

“ Unpleasant news call you them 9” replied Colonel 
Grahame, his dark eyes flashing fire, “ they are the best 
I have heard these six months. Now that the scoundrels 
are drawn into a body, we will make short work with them. 
When the adder crawls into day-light,” he added, strik- 
ing the heel of his boot upon the floor, as if in the act of 
crushing a noxious reptile, “ I can trample him to death : 
he is only safe when he remains lurking in his den O; 
morass. — Where are these knaves 9” he continued, ad- 
dressing Lord Evandale. 

“ About ten miles off among the mountains, at a place 
called Loudon-hill,” was the young nobleman’s reply. 
“ I dispersed the conventicle against which you sent me, 
and made prisoner an old trumpeter of rebellion, — an 
intercommuned minister, that is to say, — who was in 
the act of exhorting his hearers to rise and be doing 
in the eood cause, as well as one or two of his hearers. 


OLD MORTALITY. 


301 


who seemed to be particularly insolent ; and from some 
country people and scouts 1 learned what I now :ell you.” 

“ What may be their strength asked his commander 

“ Probably a thousand men, but accounts differ widely.” 

“ Then,” said Claverhouse, “ it is time for us to be up 
and be doing also — Bothwell, bid them sound to horse.” 

Bothwell, who, like the war-horse of scripture, snuffed 
the battle afar off', hastened to give orders to six negroes, 
in white dresses richly laced, and having massive silver 
collars and armlets. These sable functionaries acted as 
trumpeters, and speedily made the castle and the woods 
around it ring with their summons. 

“ Must you then leave usT’ said Lady Margaret, her 
heart sinking under recollection of former unhappy times; 

had ye not better send to learn the force of the rebels 
— O, how many a fair face hae I heard these fearfu’ sounds 
call away frae the Tower of Tillietudlem, that my auld 
een were ne’er to see return to it !” 

“ It is impossible for me to stop,” said Claverhouse ; 
“ there are rogues enough in this country to make the 
rebels five times their strength, if they are not checked 
at once.” 

“ Many,” said Evandale, “ are flocking to them already, 
and they give out that they expect a strong body of the 
indulged presbyterians, headed by young Milnwood, as 
they call him, the son of the famous old roundhead. 
Colonel Silas Morton.” 

This speech produced a very different effect upon the 
hearers. Edith almost sunk from her seat with terror, 
while Claverhouse darted a glance of sarcastic triumph 
at Major Bellenden, which seemed to imply — “ You see 
what are the principles of the young man you are plead- 
ing for.” 

“ It’s a lie — it’s a d — d lie of these rascally fanatics,” 
said the Major hastily. “ I will answer for Henry Mor- 
ton as I would for my own son. He is a lad of as good 
church-principles as any gentleman in the Life-Guards. 
I mean no offence to any one. He has gone to church 
26 VOL. I. 




303 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


service with me fifty times, and I never heard him miss 
one of the responses in my life. Edith Bellenden can 
bear witness to it as well as I. He always read on the 
same Prayer-book with her, and could look out the lessons 
as well as the curate himself. Call him up ; let him be 
heard for himself.” 

“ There can be no harm in that,” said Claverhouse, 

whether he be innocent or guilty. — Major Allan,” he 
said, turning to the officer next in command, “ take a 
guide, and lead the regiment forward to Loudon-hill by 
the best and shortest road. Move steadily, and do not 
let the men blow the horses ; Lord Evandale and I will 
overtake you in a quarter of an hour. Leave Bothwell 
with a party to bring up the prisoners.” 

Allan bowed, and left the apartment, with all the offi- 
cers, excepting Claverhouse and the young noblerpan. 
In a few minutes the sound of the military music and the 
clashing of hoofs announced that the horsemen were leav- 
ing the Castle. The sounds were presently heard only 
at intervals, and soon died away entirely. 

While Claverhouse endeavoured to sooth the terrors of 
Lady Margaret, and to reconcile the veteran Major to his 
opinion of Morton, Evandale, getting the better of that 
conscious shyness which renders an ingenuous youth diffi- 
cient in approaching the object of his affections, drew near 
!o Miss Bellenden, and accosted her in atone of mingled 
respect and interest. 

“ We are to leave you,” he said, taking her hand, 
which he pressed with much emotion — “ to leave you for 
a scene which is not without its dangers. Farewell, dear 
Miss Bellenden let me say for the first, and perhaps 
the last time, dear Edith ! We part in circumstances so 
singular as may excuse some solemnity in bidding fare- 
well to one, whom 1 have known so long and whom 1 — 
respect so highly.” 

The manner differing from the words, seemed to ex- 
press a feeling much deeper and more agitating than was 
conveyed in the phrase he made use of. It was not in 
woman to be utterly insensible to his modest and deep-feh 


OLD MOUTALITY. 


303 


expression of tenderness. Although borne down by the 
misfortunes and imminent danger of the man she loved, 
Edith was touched by the hopeless and reverential passion 
of the gallant youth, who now took leave of her to rush 
into dangers of no ordinary description. 

“ I hope — I sincerely trust,” she said, “ there is no 
danger. I hope there is no occasion for this solemn cer- 
emonial — that these hasty insurgents will be dispersed 
rather by fear than force, and that Lord Evandale will 
speedily return to be what he must always be, the dear 
and valued friend of all in this castle.” 

“ Of aZZ,” he repeated, with a melancholy emphasis 
upon the word. But be it so — whatever is near you is 
dear and valued to me, and I value their approbation ac- 
cordingly. Of our success I am not sanguine. Our num- 
bers are so few, that I dare not hope for so speedy, so 
bloodless, or so safe an end of this unhappy disturbance. 
These men are enthusiastic, resolute, and desperate, and 
have leaders not altogether unskilled in military matters. 
I cannot help thinking that the impetuosity of our Colonel 
is hurrying us against them rather prematurely. But 
there are few that have less reason to shun danger than 
I have.” 

Edith had now the opportunity she wished to bespeak 
the young nobleman’s intercession and protection for 
Henry Morton, and it seemed the only remaining channel 
of interest by which he could be rescued from impending 
destruction. Yet she felt at that moment as if, in doing 
so, she was abusing the partiality and confidence of the 
lover, whose heart was as open before her as if his tongue 
had made aii express declaration. Could she with hon- 
our engage Lord Evandale in the service of a rival 9 or 
could she with prudence make him any request, or lay 
herself under any obligation to him, without affording 
ground for hopes which she could never realize But 
the moment was too urgent for hesitation, or even for 
those explanations with which her request might otherwise 
have been qualified. 


304 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


“ I will but dispose of this young fellow,” said Claver* 
house, from the other side of the hall, “ and then, Lord 
Evandale — I am sorry to interrupt again your conversa- 
tion — but then we must mount. — Bothwell, why do not 
you bring up the prisoner 9 and, hark ye, let two files 
load their carabines.” 

In these words, Edith conceived she heard the death- 
warrant of her lover. She instantly broke through the 
restraint which had hitherto kept her silent. 

“ My Lord Evandale,” she said, “ this young gentle- 
man is a particular friend of my uncle’s — your interest 
must be great with your colonel- — let me request your in- 
tercession in his favour — it will confer on my uncle a last- 
ing obligation.” 

“ You overrate my interest. Miss Bellenden,” said 
Lord Evandale ; “ I have been often unsuccessful in such 
applications when I have made them on the mere score 
of humanity.” 

“ Yet try once again for my uncle’s sake.” 

“ And why not for your own 9” said Lord Evandale. 
“ Will you not allow me to think 1 am obliging you per- 
sonally in this matter 9 — Are you so diffident of an old 
friend that you will not allow him even the satisfaction of 
thinking that he is gratifying your wishes 9” 

“ Surely — surely,” replied Edith ; “ you will oblige 
me infinitely — I am interested in the young gentleman on 
my uncle’s account — Lose no time, for God’s sake !” 

She became bolder and more urgent in her entreaties, 
for she heard the steps of the soldiers who were entering 
with their prisoner. 

“ By Heaven ! then,” said Evandale, “ he shall not 
die, if I should die in his place ! — But will not you,” he 
said, resuming the hand, which, in the hurry of her spirits, 
she had not courage to withdraw, “ will not you grant me 
one suit in return for my zeal in your service 9” 

“ Anything you can ask, my Lord Evandale, that sis- 
terly affection can give.” 

“ And IS this all,” he continued, “ all you can grant ta 
my affection living, or my memory when dead 9” 


OLD MORTALITY. 


305 


“ Do not speak thus, my lord,” said Edith, you dis- 
tress me, and do injustice to yourself. There is no friend 
I esteem more highly, or to whom T would more readily 
grant every mark of regard — providing — But” 

A deep sigh made her turn her head suddenly, ere she 
had well uttered the last word ; and, as she hesitated how 
to frame the exception with which she meant to close the 
sentence, she became instantly aware she had been over- 
heard by Morton, who, heavily ironed and guarded by sol- 
diers, was now passing behind her in order to be present- 
ed to ClafVerhouse. As their eyes met each other, the 
sad and reproachful expression of Morton’s glance seem- 
ed to imply that he had partially heard, and altogether 
misinterpreted, the conversation which had just passed. 
There wanted but this to complete Edith’s distress and 
confusion. Her blood, which rushed to her brow, made 
a sudden revulsion to her heart, and left her as pale as 
death. This change did not escape the attention of Evan- 
dale, whose quick glance easily discovered that there was 
between the prisoner and the object of his own attach- 
ment, some singular and uncommon connection. He re- 
signed the hand of Miss Bellenden, again surveyed the 
prisoner with more attention, again looked at Edith, and 
plainly observed the confusion which she could no longer 
conceal. 

“ This,” he said, after a moment’s gloomy silence, “ is, 
I believe, the young gentleman who gained the prize at 
the shooting match.” 

“ I am not sure,” hesitated Edith — “ yet — 1 rather 
think not,” scarce knowing what she replied. 

‘‘ It is he,” said Evandale, decidedly ; “ 1 know him 
well. A victor,” he continued, somewhat haughtily, 
“ ought to have interested a fair spectator more deeply.” 

He then turned from Edith, and advancing towards the 
table at which Claverhouse now placed himself, stood at 
a little distance, resting on his sheathed broad-sword, a 
silent, but not an unconcerned, spectator of that which 
passed. 

26* VOL. I. 


306 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

O, my lord, beware of jealousy ! 

OtheUo. 

To explain the deep effect which the few broken pas- 
sages of the conversation we have detailed, made upon 
the unfortunate prisoner by whom they were dverheard, 
it is necessary to say something of his previous state of 
mind, and of the origin of his acquaintance with Edith. 

Henry Morion was one of those gifted characters which 
possess a force of talent unsuspected by the owner him- 
self. He had inherited from his father an undaunted 
courage, and a firm and uncompromising detestation of 
oppression, whether in politics or religion. But his en 
thusiasm was unsullied by fanatic zeal, and unleavened b} 
the sourness of the puritanical spirit. From these his 
mind had been freed, partly by the active exertions of his 
own excellent understanding, partly by frequent and long 
visits at Major Bellenden’s, where he had an opportunity 
of meeting with many guests whose conversation taught 
him, that goodness and worth were not limited to those of 
any single form of religious observance. 

The base parsimony of his uncle had thrown many 
obstacles in the way of his education ; but he had so far 
improved the opportunities which offered themselves, that 
his instructers as well as his friends were surprised at his 
progress under such disadvantages. Still, however, the 
current of his soul was frozen by a sense of dependence, 
of poverty, above all, of an imperfect and limited educa- 
tion. These feelings impressed him with a diffidence and 
reserve which effectually concealed from all but very in- 
timate friends, the extent of talent and the firmness of 
character, which we have stated him to be possessed of. 
The circumstances of the times had added to this reserve 
an air of indecision and of indifference ; for, being at 


OLD MORTALITY. 


307 


tached to neither of the factions which divided the king- 
dom, he passed for dull, insensible, and uninfluenced by 
the feeling of religion or of patriotism. No conclusion, 
however, could be more unjust ; and the reasons of the 
neutrality which he had hitherto professed had root in 
very different and most praiseworthy motives. He had 
formed few congenial ties with those who were the objects 
of persecution, and was disgusted alike by their narrow- 
minded and selfish party-spirit, their gloomy fanaticism, 
their abhorrent condemnation of all elegant studies or in- 
nocent exercises, and the envenomed rancour of their po- 
litical hatred. But his mind was still more revolted by 
the tyrannical and oppresive conduct of the government, 
the misrule, license and brutality of the soldiery, the ex- 
ecutions on the scaffold, the slaughters in the open field, 
the free quarters and exactions imposed by military law, 
which placed the lives and fortunes of a free people on a 
level with Asiatic slaves. Condemning, therefore, each 
})arty as its excesses fell under his eyes, disgusted with 
the sight of evils which he had no means of alleviating, 
and hearing alternate complaints and exultations with 
which he could not sympathize, he would long ere this 
have left Scotland, had it not been for his attachment to 
Edith Bellenden. 

The earlier meetings of these young people had been 
at Charnwood, when Major Bellenden, who, was as free 
from suspicion on such occasions as Uncle Toby himself, 
had encouraged their keeping each other constant com- 
pany, without entertaining any apprehension of the natural 
consequences. Love, as usual in such cases, borrowed 
the name of friendship, used her language, and claimed 
her privileges. When Edith Bellenden was recalled to 
her mother’s castle, it was astonishing by what singular 
and recurring accidents she often met young Morton in 
ner sequestered walks, especially considering the distance 
of their places of abode. Yet it somehow happened that 
she never expressed the surprise which the frequency of 
these rencontres ought naturally to have excited, and that 
their intercourse assumed gradually a more delicate char- 


308 


TAXES OF MY XANDLORD. 


acter, and their meetings began to wear the air of appoint- 
ments. Books, drawings, letters, were exchanged between 
them, and every trifling commission, given or executed, 
gave rise to a new correspondence. Love indeed was not 
yet mentioned between them by name, but each knew the 
situation of their own bosom, and could not but guess at 
that of the other. Unable to desist from an intercourse 
which possessed such charms for both, yet trembling 
for its too probable consequences, it had been continued 
without specific explanation until now, when fate appear- 
ed to have taken the conclusion into its own hands. 

It followed, as a consequence of this state of things, as 
w’ell as of the diffidence of Morton’s disposition at this 
period, that his confidence in Edith’s return of his affec- 
tion had its occasional cold fits. Her situation was in 
every respect so superior to his own, her worth so emi- 
nent, her accomplishments so many, her face so beautiful, 
and her manners so bewitching, that he could not but en- 
tertain fears that some suitor more favoured than himself 
by fortune, and more acceptable to Edith’s family than 
he durst hope to be, might step in between him and the 
object of his affections. Common rumour had raised up 
such a rival in Lord Evandale, whom birth, fortune, con- 
nections, and political principles, as well as his frequent 
visits «t Tillietudlem, and his attendance upon Lady Bel- 
lenden and her neice at all public places, naturally point- 
ed out as a candidate for her favour. It frequently and 
inevitably happened, that engagements to which Lord 
Evandale was a party, interfered with the meeting of the 
lovers, and Henry could not but mark that Edith either 
studiously avoided speaking of the young nobleman, or 
did so with obvious reserve and hesitation. 

These symptoms, which, in fact, arose from the delica- 
cy of her own feelings towards Morton himself, were mis- 
construed by his diffident temper, and the jealousy which 
they excited was fermented by the occasional observations 
of Jenny Dennison. This true-bred serving-damsel waS; 
in her own person, a complete country coquette, and when 
she had no opportunity of teazing her own lovers, used 


OLD MORTALITY. 


309 


to take some occasional opportunity to torment her young 
lady’s. This arose from no ill-will to Henry Morion, who, 
both on her mistress’s account and his own handsome form 
and countenance, stood high in her esteem. But then 
Lord Evandale was also handsome ; he was liberal far 
beyond what Morton’s means could afford, and he was a 
lord, moreover ; and, if Miss Edith Bellenden should ac- 
cept his hand, she would become a baron’s lady, and, 
“tvliat was more, little Jenny Dennison, whom the awful 
Housekeeper at Tillietudlem huffed about at her pleasure, 
would be then Mrs. Dennison, Lady Evandale’s own 
woman, or perhaps her ladyship’s lady-in-waiting. The 
impartiality of Jenny Dennison, therefore, did not, like 
that of Mrs Quickly, extend to a wish that both the hand- 
some suitors could wed her young lady ; for it must be 
owned that the scale of her regard was depressed in fav- 
our of Lord Evandale, and her wishes in his favour took 
many shapes extremely tormenting to Morton ; being now 
expressed as a friendly caution, now as an article of in- 
telligence, and anon as a merry jest, but always tending 
to confirm the idea, that, sooner or later, his romantic in- 
tercourse with her young mistress must have a close, and 
that Edith Bellenden would, in spite of summer walks 
beneath the greenwood tree, exchange of verses, of draw- 
ings, and of books, end in becoming Lady Evandale. 

These hints coincided so exactly with the very point of 
his own suspicions and fears, that Morton was not long of 
feeling that jealousy which every one has felt who has 
truly loved, but to which those are most liable whose love 
is crossed by the want of friends’ consent, or some other 
envious impediment of fortune. Edith herself, unwit- 
tingly, and in the generosity of her own frank nature, 
contributed to the error into which her lover was in dan- 
ger of falling. Their conversation once chanced to turn 
upon some late excesses committed by the soldiery on an 
occasion when it was said (inaccurately however) that the 
party was commanded by Lord Evandale. Edith, as true 
in friendship as in love, was somewhat hurt at the severe 
strictures which escaped from Morton on this occasion, 


SIO 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


and which, perhaps, were not the less strongly expressed on 
account of their supposed rivalry. She entered into Lord 
Evandale’s defence with such spirit as hurt Morton to the 
very soul, and afforded no small delight to Jenny Denni- 
son, the usual companion of their walks. Edith perceiv- 
ed her error, and endeavoured to remedy it ; but the im- 
pression was not so easily erased, and it had no small ef- 
fect in inducing her lover to form that resolution of going 
abroad, which was disappointed in the manner we have 
already mentioned. 

The visit which he received from Edith during his con- 
finement, the deep and devoted interest which she had 
expressed in his fate, ought of themselves to have dispel- 
led his suspicions ; yet, ingenious in tormenting himself, 
even this he thought might be imputed to anxious friend- 
ship, or, at most, to a temporary partiality, which would 
probably soon give way to circumstances, the entreaties 
of her friends, the authority of Lady Margaret, and the 
assiduities of Lord Evandale. 

“ And to what do I owe it,” he said, “ that I cannot 
stand up like a man, and plead my interest in her ere 1 
am thus cheated out of it ? — to what, but to the all-per- 
vading and accursed tyranny, which afflicts at once our 
bodies, souls, estates, and affections ! And is it to one oi 
the pensioned cut-throats of this oppressive government 
that I must yield my pretensions to Edith Bellenden ? — 
I will not, by Heaven ! — It is a just punishment on me 
for being dead to public wrongs, that they have visited 
me with their injuries in a point where they can be least 
brooked or borne.” 

As these stormy resolutions boiled in his bosom, and 
while he ran over the various kinds of insult and injury 
which he had sustained in his own cause and in that oi 
his country, Bothwell entered the tower, followed by two 
dragoons, one of whom carried handcuffs. 

“ You must follow me, young man,” said he, but first 
we must put you in trim.” 

“ In trim !” said Morton. “ What do vou mean ?” 


OLD MORTALITY. 


3li 


** Why, we must put on these rough bracelets. I durst 
not — nay, d — n it, I durst do anything — but I would not 
for three hours plunder of a stormed town bring a whig 
before my colonel without his being ironed. Come, come, 
young man, don’t look sulky about it.” 

He advanced to put on the irons ; but, seizing the 
oaken-seat upon which he had rested, Morton threatened 
to dash out the brains of the first who should approach him. 

“ I could manage you in a moment, my youngster,” 
said Bothwell, “ but I had rather you would strike sail 
quietly.” 

Here indeed he spoke the truth, not from either fear or 
reluctance to adopt force, but because he dreaded the 
consequences of a noisy scuffle, through which it might 
probably be discovered that he had, contrary to express 
orders, suffered his prisoner to pass the night without 
being properly secured. 

“ You had better be prudent,” he continued, in a tone 
which he meant to be conciliatory, “ and don’t spoil your 
own sport. They say here in the castle that Lady Mar- 
garet’s niece is immediately to marry our young Captain, 
Lord Evandale. I saw them close together in the hall 
yonder, and T heard h-er ask him to intercede for your 
pardon. She looked so devilish handsome and kind upon 
him, that on my ioul — but what the devil’s the matter with 
you 9 — You are as pale as a sheet — Will you have some 
brandy , 

“ Miss Bellenden ask my life of Lord Evandale 9” 
said the prisoner, faintly. 

“ Ay, ay ; there’s no friend like the women — their in- 
terest carries all in court and camp. — Come, you are rea- 
sonable now — Ay, I thought you would come round.” 

Here he employed himself in putting on the fetters, 
against wfflich Morton, thunderstruck by this intelligence, 
no longer offered the least resistance. 

“ My life begged of him, and by her ! — ay — ay — pul 
on the irons — my limbs shall not refuse to bear what has 
entered into my very soul — My life begged by Edith, and 
begged of Evandale !” 


312 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


“ Ay, and he has power to grant it too,” said Both- 
well — “ He can do more with the Colonel than any man 
in the regiment.” 

And as he spoke he and his party led their prisoner 
towards the hall. In passing behind the seat of Edith 
the unfortunate prisoner heard enough, as he conceived, 
of the broken expressions which passed between Edith 
and Lord Evandale to confirm all that the soldier had 
told him. That moment made a singular and instantane- 
ous revolution in his character. The depth of despair to 
which his love and fortunes were reduced, the peril in 
which his life appeared to stand, the transference of 
Edith’s affections, her intercession in his favour, which 
rendered her fickleness yet more galling, seemed to de- 
stroy every feeling for which he had hitherto lived, but, 
at the same time, awakened those which had hitherto 
been smothered by passions more gentle though more 
selfish. Desperate himself, he determined to support the 
rights of his country, insulted in his person. His char- 
acter was for the moment as effectually changed as the 
appearance of a villa, which, from being the abode of 
domestic quiet and happiness, is, by the sudden intrusion 
of an armed force, converted into a formidable post of 
defence. 

We have already said that he cast upon Edith one 
glance in which reproach was mingled with sorrow, as if 
to bid her farewell forever ; his next motion was to walk 
firmly to the table at which Colonel Grahame was seated. 

“ By what right is it, sir,” said he, firmly, and without 
waiting till he was questioned, — “ By what right is it that 
these soldiers have dragged me from my family, and put 
fetters on the limbs of a free man ?” 

“ By my commands,” answered Claverhouse ; ‘‘ and 
I now lay my commands on you to be silent and hear my 
questions.” 

“ I will not,” replied Morton, in a determined tone, 
while his boldness seemed to electrify all around him. 
“ I will know whether I am in lawful custody, and before 


OLD MORTALITY. 


313 


a ci>h ere the charter of my country shall be 

forfeited in my person.” 

“ A pretty springald this, upon my honour !” said 
Claverhouse. 

“ Are you mad ?” said Major Bellenden to his young 
friend. “ For God’s sake, Henry Morton,” he continu- 
ed, in a tone between rebuke and entreaty, “ remember 
you are speaking to one of his majesty’s officers high in 
the service.” 

“ It is for that very reason, sir,” returned Henry, firm- 
ly, “ that I desire to know what right he has to detain 
me without a legal warrant. Were he a civil officer of 
the law, I should know my duty was submission.” 

“ Your friend, here,” said Claverhouse to the veteran, 
coolly, “ is one of»those scrupulous gentlemen, who, like 
the madman in the play, will not tie his cravat without 
the warrant of Mr. Justice Overdo ; but I will let him 
see, before we part, that my shoulder-knot is as legal a 
badge of authority as the mace of the Justiciary. So, 
waiving this discussion, you will be pleased young man, 
to tell me directly when you saw Balfour of Burley.” 

“ As I know no right you have to ask such a question,” 
replied Morton, “ I decline replying to it.” 

“ You confessed to my sergeant,” said Claverhouse, 
‘‘ that you saw and entertained him, knowing him to be 
an intercommuned traitor ; why are you not so frank with 
me 9” 

“ Because,” replied the prisoner, “ I presume you 
are, from education, taught to understand the rights upon 
which you seem disposed to trample ; and I am willing 
you should be aware there are yet Scotsmen who can 
assert the liberties of Scotland.” 

“ And these supposed rights you would vindicate with 
vour sword, I presume 9” said Colonel Grahame. 

Were I armed as you are, and we were alone upon 
a hill-side, you should not ask me the question twice.” 

“ It is quite enough,” answered Claverhouse, calmly ; 
“ your language corresponds with all I have heard of 
27 VOL. I. 


314 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


you ; — but you are the son of a soldier, though a rebel- 
lious one, and you shall not die the death of a dog ; I 
will save you that indignity.’’ 

“ Die in what manner I may,” replied Morton, I 
will die like the son of a brave man ; and the ignominy 
you mention shall remain with those who shed innocent 
blood.” 

“ Make your peace, then, with Heaven, in five minutes 
space. — Both well, lead him down to the court-yard, and 
draw up your party.” 

The appalling nature of this conversation, and of its 
results, struck the silence of horror into all but the speak- 
ers. But now those who stood round broke forth into 
clamour and expostulation. Old Lady Margaret, who, 
with all the prejudices of rank and jiarty, had not laid 
aside the feelings of her sex, was loud in her intercession. 

“ O, Colonel Grahame,” she exclaimed, “ spare his 
young blood ! Leave him to the law — do not repay my 
hospitality by shedding men’s blood on the threshold of 
my doors !” 

“ Colonel Grahame,” said Major Bellenden, “ you 
must answer this violence. Don’t think, though I am old 
and feckless, that my friend’s son shall be murdered be- 
fore my eyes with impunity. 1 can find friends that shall 
make you answer it.” 

“ Be satisfied. Major Bellenden, I will answer it,” 
replied Claverhouse, totally unmoved ; ‘‘ and you, mad- 
am, might spare me the pain of resisting this passionate 
intercession for a traitor, when you consider the noble 
blood your own house has lost by such as he is.” 

“ Colonel Grahame,” answered the lady, her aged 
frame trembling with anxiety, “ 1 leave vengeance to 
God, who calls it his own. The shedding of this young 
man’s blood will not call back the lives that were dear to 
me ; and how can it comfort me to think that there ha? 
maybe been another widowed mother made childless, like 
mysell, by a deed done at my very door-stane !” 

“ This is stark madness,” said Claverhouse ; “ I must 
no my duty to church and state. Here are a thousand 


OLD MORTAIilTV. 


315 


rillains hard by in open rebellion, and you ask me to par- 
don a young fanatic who is enough of himself to set a 
whole kingdom in a blaze ! It cannot be — remove him, 
Bothwell.” 

She who was most interested in this dreadful decision, 
had twice strove to speak, but her voice had totally failed 
her 5 her mind refused to suggest words, and her tongue 
to utter them. She now sprung up and attempted to 
rush forward, but her strength gave way, and she would 
have fallen flat upon the pavement had she not been 
caught by her attendant. 

“ Help!” cried Jenny, — “ Help, for God’s sake ! my 
young lady is dying.” 

At this exclamation, Evandale, who, during the pre- 
ceding part of thjp scene, had stood motionless, leaning 
upon his sword, now stepped forward, and said to his 
commanding-officer, — “ Colonel Grahame, before pro- 
’ceeding in this matter, will you speak a word with me in 
private 

Claverhouse looked surprised, but instantly rose and 
withdrew with the young nobleman into a recess, where 
the following brief dialogue passed between them ; 

“ I think 1 need not remind you. Colonel, that when 
our family interest was of service to you last year in that 
affair in the privy-council, you considered yourself as 
laid under some obligation to us ?” 

“ Certainly, my dear Evandale,” answered Claver- 
house, “ I am not a man who forgets such debts ; you 
will delight me by showing how I can evince my grati- 
tude.” 

“ I will hold the debt cancelled,” said Lord Evandale, 
‘ if you will spare this young man’s life.” 

“ Evandale,” replied Grahame, in great surprise, 
“ you are mad — absolutely mad — what interest can you 
have in this young spawn of an old roundhead 9 — His 
father was positively the most dangerous man in all Scot- 
land, cool, resolute, soldierly, and inflexible in his cursed 
principles. His son seems his very model ; you cannot 
conceive the mischief he may do. T know mankind. 


316 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


Evandale — were he an insignificant, fanatical, country 
Dooby, do you think I would have refused such a trifle as 
his life to Lady Margaret and this family But this is a 
lad of fire, zeal, and education — and these knaves want 
but such a leader to direct their blind enthusiastic hardi- 
ness. I mention this, not as refusing your request, but to 
make you fully aware of the possible consequences — I 
will never evade a promise, or refuse to return an obli- 
gation — If you ask his life, he shall have it.” 

“ Keep him close prisoner,” answered Evandale, 
“ but do not be surprised if I persist 'in requesting you 
will not put him to death. I have most urgent reasons 
for what I ask.” 

“ Be it so then,” replied Grahame ; — “ but, young 
man, should you wish in your future life to rise to emi- 
nence in the service of your king and country, let it be 
your first task to subject to the public interest, and to the 
discharge of your duty, your private passions, affections, 
and feelings. These are not times to sacrifice to the do- 
tage of greybeards, or the tears of silly women, the 
measures of salutary severity, which the dangers around 
compel us to adopt. And remember, that if I now yield 
this point, in compliance with your urgency, my present 
concession must exempt me from future solicitations of 
the same nature.” 

He then stepped forward to the table, and bent his 
eyes keenly on Morton, as if to observe what effect the 
pause of awful suspense between death and life, which 
seemed to freeze the by-standers with horror, would pro- 
duce upon the prisoner himself. Morton maintained a 
degree of firmness, which nothing but a mind that had 
nothing left upon earth to love, or to hope, could have 
supported at such a crisis. 

“ You see him *?” said Claverhouse, in a half whisper 
to I^ord Evandale ; “ he is tottering on the verge be- 
tween time and eternity, a situation more appalling than 
the most hideous certainty ; yet his is the only cheek un 
clenched, the only eye that is calm, the only heart that 


OLD MORTALITY. 


317 


keeps its usual time, the only nerves that are not quivering. 
Look at him well, Evandale — If that man shall ever come 
to head an army of rebels,you will have much to answer for 
on account of this morning’s work.” He then said aloud, 
“ Young man, your life is for the present safe, through 
the intercession of your friends. — Remove him, Bothwell, 
and let him be properly guarded and brought along with 
the other prisoners.” 

“ If my life,” said Morton, stung with the idea that 
he owed his respite to the intercession of a favoured 
rival, “ if my life be granted at Lord Evand ale’s re- 
quest” — 

“ Take the prisoner away, Bothwell,” said Colonel 
Grahame, interrupting him ; “ I have neither lime to 
make nor to hear fine speeches.” 

Bothwell forced off Morton, saying, as he conducted 
him into the court-yard, “ Have you three lives in your 
pocket, besides the one in your body, my lad, that you 
can afford to let your tongue run away with them at this 
rate 9 Come, come, I’ll take care to keep you out of the 
Colonel’s way ; for, egad, you will not be five minutes 
with him before the next tree or the next ditch will be 
the word. So, come along to your companions in bon- 
dage.” 

Thus speaking, the sergeant, who, in his rude manner 
did not altogether want sympathy for a gallant young man, 
hurried Morton down to the court-yard, where thre^.other 
prisoners, (two men and a woman,) who had been taken by 
Lord Evandale, remained under an escort of dragoons. 

Meantime, Claverhouse took his leave of Lady Mar- 
garet. But it was difficult for the good lady to forgive 
his neglect of her intercession. 

“ I have thought till now,” she said, “ that the Tower 
of Tillietudlem might have been a place of succour to 
those that are ready to perish, even if they werena sae 
deserving as they should have been — but I see auld Iruit 
has little savour — our suffering and our services have 
been of an ancient date.” 

27 * VOL. I. 


318 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


They are never to be forgotten by me, let me assure 
your ladyship,” said Claverhouse. “ Nothing but what 
seemed my sacred duty could make me hesitate to grant 
a favour requested by you and the Major. Come, my 
good lady, let me hear you say you have forgiven me, 
and, as I return to-night, I will bring a drove of two 
liundred whigs with me, and pardon fifty head of them 
for your sake.” 

“ I shall be happy to hear of your success. Colonel,” 
said Major Bellenden ; “ but take an old soldier’s advice, 
and spare blood when battle’s over, — and once more let 
me request to enter bail for young Morton.” 

“ We will settle that when I return,” said Claver- 
house. “ Meanwhile, be assured his life shall be safe.” 

During this conversation, Evandale looked anxiously 
around for Edith ; but the precaution of Jenny Dennison 
had occasioned her mistress being transported to her own 
apartment. 

Slowly and heavily he obeyed tbe impatient summons 
of Claverhouse, who, after taking a courteous leave of 
Lady Margaret and the Major, had hastened to the court- 
yard. The prisoners with their guard were already on 
their march, and the officers with their escort mounted 
and followed. All pressed forward to overtake the main 
body, as it was supposed thjey would come in sight of the 
enemy in little more than two hours. 


NOTES TO THE BLACK DWARF 


1. Paffe 14. The Black Dwarf, now almost forgotten, was once held a 
formidable personage by the dalesmen of the Border, where he got the blame 
of whatever mischief befell the sheep or cattle. He was,” says Dr. Ley- 
den, who makes considerable use of him in the ballad called the Cowt of 
Keeldar, a fairy of the most malignant order — the genuine Northern Duer- 
gar.” The best and most authentic account of this dangerous and mysteri- 
ous being occurs in a tale communicated to the author by that eminent anti- 
q^uary, Richard Surtees, Esq. of Mainsforth, author of the History of the 
Bishopric of Durham. 

According to this well-attested legend, two young Northumbrians were out 
on a shooting party, and had plunged deep among the mountainous moor- 
lands which border on Cumberland. They stopped for refreshment in a little 
secluded dell by the side of a rivulet. There, after they had partaken of 
such food as they brought with them, one of the party fell asleep j the other, 
unwilling to disturb his friend’s repose, stole silently out of the dell with the 
purpose of looking around him, when he was astonished to find himself close 
to a being who seemed not to belong to this world, as he was the most hide- 
ous dwarf that the sun had ever shone on. His head was of full human 
size, forming a frightful contrast with his height, which was considerably un- 
der four feet. It was thatched with no other covering than long matted red 
hair, like that of the felt of a badger in consistence, and in colour a reddish 
brown, like the hue of the heather-blossom. His limbs seemed of great 
strength j nor was he otherwise deformed than from their undue proportion 
in thickness to his diminutive height. The terrified sportsman stood gazing 
on this horrible apparition, until, with an angry countenance, the being de- 
manded by what right he intruded himself on those hills, and destroyed their 
harmless inhabitants. The perplexed stranger endeavoured to propitiate the 
incensed dwarf, by offering to surrender his game, as he would to an earthly 
Lord of the Manor. The proposal only redoubled the offence already taken 
by the dwarf, who alleged that he was the lord of those mountains, and the 
protector of the wild creatures who found a retreat in their solitary recesses j 
and that all spoils derived from their death, or misery, were abhorrent to 
him. 'J’he hunter humbled himself before the angry goblin, and by protesta- 
tions of his ignorance, and of his resolution to abstain from such intrusion in 
future, at last succeeded in pacifying him. The gnome now became more 
communicative, and spoke of himself as belonging to a species of beings 
something between the angelic race and humanity. He added, moreover, 
which could hardly have been anticipated, that lie had hopes of sharing in 
the redemption of the race of Adam. He pressed the sportsman to visit his 
dwelling, which he said was hard by, and plighted his faith for his safe re- 
turn. But at this moment, the shout of the sportsman’s companion was 
heard calling for his friend, and the dwarf, as if unwilling that more than one 
person should be cognisant of his presence, disappeared as the young man 
emerged from the dell to join his comrade. 

It was the universal opinion of those most experienced in such matters, 
that if the shooter had accompanied the spirit, he would, notwithstanding the 


320 


NOTES TO OLD MORTALITY. 


dwarTs fair pretences, have been either tom to pieces, or immured I ir years 
in the recesses of some fairy hill. 

Such is the last and most authentic account of the apparition of the Black 
Dwarf. 

2. Paffe 24. The Scots use the epithet soft, in vudam partem, in two 
cases, at least. A soft road, is a road through quagmire and bogs 5 and soft 
weather, signifies that which is very rainy. 

3. Page 30. The gathering peat is the piece of turf left to treasure up 
the secret seeds of fire, without any generous consumption of fuel j in a 
word, to keep the fire alive. 

4. Page 34. Curlew. 

5. Page 82. There is a level meadow, on the very margin of the^ two 
kingdoms, called Turner’s-holm, just where the brook called Crissop joins 
the Liddel. It is said to have derived its name as being a place frequently 
assigned for tourneys, during the ancient Border times. 

6. Page 116. To h meaning to lift the coffin, is the common expres 



sion for commencing a 


tuneral. 


WOTES TO OLD MORTALITY. 


1. Page 180. The Festival of the Popinjay is still, I believe, practised 
at Maybcde, in Ayrshire. The following passage in the history of the Som- 
erville family, suggested the scenes in the text. The author of that curious 
manuscript thus celebrates his father’s demeanour at such an assembly. 

Having now passed his infancie, in the tenth year of his age, he was by 
his grandfather putt to the grammar school, ther being then att the toune of 
Delserf a very able master that taught the grammar, and fitted boyes for the 
colledge. Dureing his educating in this place, they had then a custome 
every year to solemnize the first Sunday of May with dancing about a May- 
pole, fyreing of pieces, and all manner of ravelling then in use. Ther being 
at that tyme feu or noe merchants in this pettie village, to furnish necessaries 
for the scholars sports, this youth resolves to provide himself elsewhere, so 
that he may appear with the bravest. In order to this, by break of day he 
ryses and goes to Hamiltoune, and there bestowes all the money that for a 
long tyme before he had gotten from his friends, or had otherwayes purchas- 
ed, upon ribbones of divers coloures, a new hatt and gloves. But m nothing 
he bestowed his money more liberallic than upon gunpowder, a great quan- 
titie whereof he buyes for his owne use, and to supplie the wantes of his 
comerades ; thus furnished with these commodities, but ane empty purse, he 
returnes to Delserf by seven a clock, (haveing travelled that Sabbath morn- 
ing above eight myles,) puttes on his cloathes and new hatt, flying with rib- 
bones of all culloures ; and in this equipage, with his little phizie (fusee) upon 
his shoulder, he marches to the church yaird, where the May pole was s u* 
up, and the solemnitie of that day was to be kept. There first at the foot- 
ball he equalled any one that played ; but in handleing his piece, in charge- 
ing and dischargeing, he was so ready, and shott so near the marke, that he 


NOTES TO OLD MORTALITY, 


321 


'arre surpassed all his fellow schollars, and became a teacher of that art to 
them before the thretteenlh year of his oune a^e. And really,! have often 
admired his dexterity in this, both at the exercizein^ of his soulders, and 
when for recreatione. I have g'one to the gunning with him when I was but 
a stripeling myself; and albeit that passetyme was the exercize 1 delighted 
most in, yet could I never attaine to any perfectione comparable to him. 
This dayes sport being over, he had the applause of all the spectatores, the 
kyndnesse of his fellow-condisciples, and the favour of the whole inhabitants 
of that little village.” 

2. Page 198. The history of the restless and ambitious Francis Stewart, 
Earl of Bothwell, makes a considerable figure in the reign of James VI. of 
Scotland, and First of England. After being repeatedly pardoned for acts 
of treason, he was at length obliged to retire abroad, where he died in great 
misery. Great part of his forfeited estate was bestowed on Walter Scott, 
first Lord of Buccleuch, and on the first Earl of Roxburghe. 

Francis Stewart, son of the forfeited Earl, obtained from the favour of 
Charles I. a decreet-arbitral, appointing the two noblemen, grantees of his 
father's estate, to restore the same, or make some compensation for retaining 
it. The barony of Crichton, with its beautiful castle, was surrendered by 
the curators of Francis, Earl of Buccleuch, but he retained the far more ex- 
tensive property in Liddesdale. James Stewart also, as appears from writ 
ings in the author’s possession, made an advantageous composition with the 
Earl of Roxburghe. “ But,” says the satirical Scotstarvet, “• viak jxvta 
pejus dilabuntur ; for he never brooked them, (enjoyed them,) nor was any 
thing the richer, since they accrued to his creditors, and are now in the pos- 
session of Dr. Seaton. His eldest son Francis became a trooper in the late 
war } as for the other brother John, who was Abbot ot Coldingham, he also 
disponed all that estate, and now has nothing, but lives on the charity of his 
friends.”* 

Francis Stewart, who had been a trooper during the great Civil War, 
seems to have received no preferment, after the Restoration, suited to his 
high birth, though, in fact, third cousin to Charles II. Captain Crichton, the 
friend of Dean Swift, who published his Memoirs, found him a private gen- 
tleman in the King’s Life-Guards. At the same time this was no degrading 
condition; for Fountainhall records a duel fought between a Life-Guards- 
man and an officer in the militia, because the latter had taken upon him to 
assume superior rank as an officer, to a gentleman private in the Life-Guards. 
The Life-Guards man was killed in the rencontre, and iiis antagonist w'as ex- 
ecuted for murder. 

The character of Bothwell, except in relation to the name, is entirely ideal. 

3. Page 203. The general account of this act of assassination is to be 
found in all histories of the period. A more particular narrative may be 
found in the words of one of the actors, James Russell, in the Appendix to 
Kirkton’s History of the Church of Scotland, published by Charles Kirkpa- 
rick Sharpe, Esquire, 4to, Eduiburgh, 1817. 

4. Page 203. One Carmichael, sheriffi-depute in Fife, who had been ac- 
tive in enforcing the penal measures against non-conformists. He was on 
the moors hunting, but receiving accidental information that a party was out 
in quest of him, lie returned home, and escaped tlie fate designed for him, 
which befell his patron the Archbishop. 

.5. Page 204. The leader of this party was David Hackston, of Rathil- 
(cf, a gentleman of ancient birth and good estate. He had been profligate 


* 'I’lie Staggering State of the Scots Statesmen for one hundred years, by 
C^ir John Scot of Scotstarvet, Eiliiiburgli, 17o4. p. lo'l. 


322 


NOTES TO OLD MORTALITY 


;n his young’cr days, but having been led from curiosity to attend the con 
venticlcs of the nonconforming clergy, he adopted their principles in the 
fullest extent. It appears, that Hackston had some personal quarrel with 
Archbishop Sharpe, which induced him to decline the command ol the part^ 
when the slaughter was determined upon, fearing his acceptance might be 
ascribed to motives of personal enmity. He fell himself tree in conscience, 
however, to be present 5 aiid when the archbishop, dragged from his carriage, 
crawled towards him on his knees for protection, he replied coldly, “ Sir, I 
will never lay a finger on you." It is remarkable that Hackston, as well as 
a shepherd who was also present, but passive, on the occasion, w-ere the only 
two of the party of assassins who suffered death by the hands of the execu- 
tioner. 

On Hackston refusing the command, it was by universal suffrage coflfer- 
red on John Balfour of Kinloch, called Burley, who was Hackston’s brother- 
in-law. He is described as a little man, squint-eyed, and of a very fierce 
aspect." — “ He was," adds the same author, '' by some reckoned none of 
the most religious ; yet he was always reckoned zealous and honest-hearted, 
courageous in every enterprise, and a brave soldier, seldom any escaping 
that came into his hands. He was the principal actor in killing that arch- 
traitor to the Lord and his church, James Sharpe. 

6. Page 213. A masculine retainer of this kind, having offended his 
master extremely, was commanded to leave his service instantly. “ In troth 
and that will I not," answered the domestic 5 ‘‘ if your honour disna ken 
when ye hae a gude servant, 1 ken when I hae a gude master, and go away 
I will not." On another occasion of the same nature, the master said, “John, 
you and I shall never sleep under the same roof again to which John re- 
plied, with much nalveti, “ Where the deil can your honour be ganging ?" 

7. Page 214. Regimental music is never played at night. But who can 
assure us that such was not the custom in Charles the Second's time ? Till I 
am well informed on this point, the kettle-drums shall clash on, as adding 
something to the picturesque effect of the night march. 

8. Page 242. The custom of keeping the door of a house or chateau 
locked during the time of dinner, probamy arose from the family being an- 
ciently assembled in the hall at that meal, and liable to surprise. But it was 
in many instances continued as a point of high etiquette, of which the follow- 
ing is an example : 

A considerable landed proprietor in Dumfries-shire, being a bachelor, 
without near relations, and determined to make his will, resolved previously 
to visit his two nearest kinsmen, and decide which should be his heir, ac- 
cording to the degree of kindness with which he should be received. Like a 
good clansman, he first visited his own chief, a baronet in rank, descendant 
and representative of one of the oldest families in Scotland. Unhappily the 
dinner-bell had rung, and the door of the castle had been locked before his 
arrival. The visiter in vain announced his name and requested admittance ; 
but his chief adhered to the ancient etiquette, and wmuld on no account suffer 
the doors to be unbarred. Irritated at this cold reception, the old Laird rode 
on to Sanquhar Castle, then the residence of the Duke of Queensberry, who 
no sooner heard his name, than, knowing well he had a w'ill to make, the 
drawbridge dropped, and the gates flew open — the table was covered anew — 
his graced bachelor and intestate kinsman was received with the utmost at- 
tention and respect 5 and it is scarcely necessary to add, that upon his death 
some years after, the visiter’s considerable landed property went to augment 
the domains of the Ducal House of Queensberry. This happened about the 
End of the seventeenth century. 


See Scottish Worthies. 8vo. Leith, 1816. Page 522. 


NOTES TO OLD MORTALITY 


323 


9. Page 243. The Scots retain the use of the word town in its compre 
hensive Saxon meaning', as a place of habitation. A mansion or a farm 
house, though solitary, is called the town. A landward toton is a dwelling sit 
uated in the country. 

10. Page 260. A Highland laird, whose peculiarities live still in the re- 
collection of his countrymen, used to regulate his residence at Edinburgh in 
the following manner : Every day he visited the Water-gate, as it is called, 
of the Canongate, over which is extended a wooden arch. Specie being 
then the general currency, he threw his purse over the gate, and as long as it 
was heavy enough to be thrown over, he continued his round -of pleasure in 
the metropolis j when it was too light, he thought it time to retire to the High- 
lands. Query — How often would he have repeated this experiment at Tem- 
ple Bar ? 

11. Page 261. The punishment of riding the wooden mare was, in the 
days of Charles and long after, one of the various and cruel modes of en- 
forcing military discipline. In front of the old guard-house in the High- 
Street of Edinburgh, a large horse of this kind was placed, on which now 
and then, in the more ancient times, a veteran might be seen mounted, with 
a firelock tied to each foot, atoning for some small offence. 

There is a singular work, entitled Memoirs of Prince William Henry, Duke 
of Gloucester, (son of Queen Anne,) from his birth to his ninth year, in which 
Jenkin Lewis, an honest Welshman in attendance on the royal infant’s per- 
son, is pleased to record that his Royal Highness laughed, cried, crow’d, and 
said Gig and Dy, very like a babe of plebeian descent. He had also a pre- 
mature taste for the discipline as well as the show of war, and had a corps ot 
twenty-two boys, arrayed with paper caps and wooden swords. For the 
maintenance of discipline in this juvenile corps, a wooden horse was estab- 
lished in the Presence-chamber, and was sometimes employed in the pun- 
ishment of offences not strictly military. Hughes, the Duke’s tailor, hav- 
ing made him a suit of clothes which were too tight, was appointed, in an 
order of the day issued by the young prince, to be placed on this penal steed. 
The man of remnants, by dint of supplication and mediation, escaped from 
the penance, which was likely to equal the inconveniences of his brother art- 
ist’s equestrian trip to Brentford. But an attendant named Weatherly, who 
had presumed to bring the young Prince a toy, (after he had discarded the 
use of them,) was actually mounted on the wooden horse without a saddle, 
with his face to the tail, while he was plied by four servants of the household 
with syringes and squirts, till he had a thorough wetting. “ He was a wag- 
gish fellow.” says Lewis, “ and would not lose anything for the joke’s sake 
when he was putting his tricks upon others, so he was obliged to submit 
cheerfully to what was inflicted upon him, being at our mercy to play him off 
well, which we did accordingly.” Amid much such nonsense, Lewis’s book 
shows that this poor child, the heir of the British monarchy, who died when 
le was eleven years old, was, in truth, of promising parts, and of a good dis- 
position. The volume, which rarely occurs, is an octavo, published in 1789, 
the editor being Dr. Philip Hayes of Oxford. 

12. Page 271. Concealment of an individual, while in public or promis- 
cuous society, was then very common. In England, where no plaids were 
worn, the ladies used vizard masks for the same purpose, and the gallants 
drew the skirls of their cloaks over the right shoulder, so as to cover part ol 
the face. This is repeatedly alluded to in Pepy’s Diary. 

13. Page 288. As few, in the present age, are acquainted with the pon- 
derous folios to which the age of Louis Xfv. gave rise, we need only say, 
that they combine the dulness of the metaphysical courtship with all the im- 
probabilities of the ancient Romance of Chivalry. Their character will be 
mo.st easily learned from Boileau’s Dramatic Satire, or Mrs. Lennox’s Fe- 
male Quixote. 


NOTES TO OLD MORTALITY. 


:u>4 

14. Pag-e 289. Sir James Turner was a soldier of fortune, bred in (he civil 
ivars. He was intrusted with a commission to levy the lines imposed by the 
Privy Council for non-conformity, in the district of Dumfries and Galloway. 
In tills capacity' he vexed the country so much by his exactions, that the 

e le rose and made him prisoner, and then proceeded in arms towards 
Lothian, wliere they were defeated at Pentland Hills, in 1666. Besides 
his treatise on the Military Art, Sir James Turner wrote several other works ; 
tlie most curious of which is his Memoirs of his own Life and Times, which 
has just been printed, under the charge of the Bannatyne Club. 

15. Page 289. The Castle of Tillietudlem is imaginary j but the ruins 
of Craignethan Castle, situated on the Nethan, about three miles from its 
junction with the Clyde, have something of the character of the description 
in the text. 

IS. Page 292. This remarkable person united the seemingly inconsistent 
qualities of courag'e and cruelty, a disinterested and devoted loyally to his 
prince, with a disregard of the rights of his fellow-subjects. He was the 
unscrupulous agent of the Scottish Privy Council in executing the merciless 
severitias of the government in Scotland during the reigns of Charles II. 
and James 11. 5 but he redeemed his character by the zeal with which he as- 
serted the cause of the latter monarch after the Revolution, the military skill 
with which he supported it at the battle of Killiecrankie, and by his own 
death in the arms of victory. 

It is said by tradition, that he was very desirous to see, and be introduced 
to, a certain Lady Elphinstoun, who had reached the advanced age of one 
hundred years and upwards. The noble matron, being a stanch whig, was 
rather unwilling to receive Claver'se, (as he was called from his title,) but at 
length consented. After the usual compliments, the officer observed to the 
lady, that having lived so much beyond the usual term of humanity, she must 
in her time have seen many strange changes. Hout na, sir," said Lady 
Elphinstoun, ‘‘ the world is just to end with me as it began. When I was 
entering life, there was ane Knox deaving us a’ wi’ his clavers, and now I am 
ganging out, tnere is ane Claver’se deaving us a’ with his knocks.*' 

Clavers signifying, in common parlance, idle chat, the double pun does 
credit to the ingenuity of a lady of a hundred years old. 

17. Page 296. llesetted, i, e. received or harboured. 


END OF VOLUME I 


TAL,ES OF MY LANDLORD. 


♦ 


FIRST SERIFS, 


BLACK DWARF.— OLD MORTALITY. 


Hear, Land o’ Cakes and brither Scots, 

Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groats’, 

If there’s a hole in a’ your coats, 

I rede ye tent it ; 

A chiel’s aman^^ you takin notes, 

An’ faith he’ll prent it. 

Bums. 


IN TWO VOLUMES. 

II. 


PARKER’S EDITION, 

%>%:V1SED AND CORRECTED, WITH A GENERAL PREFACE, X 
INTRODUCTION TO EACH NOVEL, AND NOTES, 
HISTORICAL AND ILLUSTRATIVE, BY 


THE AUTHOR 






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OLD MORI A. 


CHAPTER I. 


My hounds may a’ rin masterless, 

My hawks may fly frae tree to tree, 

My lord may grip my vassal lands. 

For there again maun I never be I 

Old Ballad. 

We left Morton, along with three companions in cap- 
tivity, travelling in the custody of a small body of soldiers 
who formed the rear-guard of the column under the 
command of Claverhouse, and were immediately under 
the charge of Sergeant Bothwell. Their route lay to- 
wards the hills in which the insurgent presbyterians were 
reported to be in arms. They had not prosecuted their 
march a quarter of a mile ere Claverhouse and Evan- 
dale galloped past them, followed by their orderly-men, 
in order to take their proper places in the column which 
preceded them. No sooner were they past than Both- 
well halted the body which he commanded, and disen- 
cumbered Morton of his irons. 

“ King’s blood must keep word,” said the dragoon. 
“ I promised you should be civilly treated as far as rested 
with me. — Here, Corporal Inglis, let this gentleman ride 
alongside of the other young fellow who is prisoner ; and 
you may permit them to converse together at their pleas- 
ure, under their breath, but take care they are guarded 
by two files with loaded carabines. Tf they attempt an 


^ TALES OE MV LANDLORD. 

escape, blow their brains out. — You cannot call that using 
you uncivilly,” he continued, addressing himself to Mor- 
ton, “ it’s the rules of war, you know. — And, Inglis, 
couole up the parson and the old woman, they are fiitesi 
company for each other, d — n me ; a single file may 
guard them well enough. If they speak a word of cani 
or fanatical nonsense, let them have a strapping with a 
shoulder-belt. There’s some hope of choking a silenced 
parson ; if he is not allowed to hold forth, his own trea- 
son will burst him.” 

Having made this arrangement, Bothwell placed him- 
self at the head of the party, and Inglis, with six dra- 
goons, brought up the rear. The whole then set forward 
at a trot, with the purpose of overtaking the main body 
of the regiment. 

Morton, overwhelmed with a complication of feelings, 
was totally indifferent to the various arrangements made 
for his secure custody, and even to the relief afforded 
him by his release from the fetters. He experienced 
that blank and waste of the heart which follows the hur- 
ricane of passion, and, no longer supported by the pride 
and conscious rectitude which dictated his answers to 
Claverhouse, he surveyed with deep dejection the glades 
through which he travelled, each turning of which had 
something to remind him of past happiness and disap- 
pointed love. The eminence which they now ascended 
was that from which he used first and last to behold the 
ancient tower when approaching or retiring from it ; and, 
it is needless to add, that there he was w^ont to pause, 
and gaze with a lover’s delight on the battlements, which, 
rising at a distance out of the lofty wood, indicated the 
dwelling of her, v;hom he either hoped soon to meet or 
had recently parted from. • Instinctively he turned his 
head back to take a last look of a scene formerly so dear 
to him, and no less instinctively he heaved a deep sigh. 
It was echoed by a loud groan from his companion in 
misfortune, whose eyes, moved, perchance, by similar 
reflections, had taken the same direction. This indica 
tion of sympathy, on the part of the captive, was uttered 


OI.D MORTALITY. 


5 


in a tone more coarse than sentimental ; it was, however, 
the expression of a grieved spirit, and so far correspond- 
ed with the sigh of Morton. In turning their heads their 
eyes met, and Morton recognized the stolid countenance 
of Cuddie Headrigg, bearing a rueful expression, in 
which sorrow for his own lot was mixed with sympathy 
for the situation of his companion. 

“ Hegh, sirs !” was the expression of the ci-devant 
ploughman of the Mains of Tillietudlem ; “ It’s an unco 
thing that decent folk should be harled through the coun- 
try this gate, as if they were a warld’s wonder.” 

“ I am sorry to see you here, Cuddie,” said Morton, 
who, even in his own distress, did not lose feeling for 
that of others. 

“ And sae am 1, Mr. Henry,” answered Cuddie, 
“ baith for myselland you ; but neither of our sorrows 
will do muckle gude that I can see. To be sure, for me,” 
continued the captive agriculturist, relieving his heart by 
talking, though he well knew it was to little purpose, — 
“ to be sure, for my part, I hae nae right to be here ava’, 
for I never did nor said a word against either king or 
curate ; but my mither, puir body, couldna baud the auld 
tongue o’ her, and we maun baith pay for’t, it’s like.” 

“ Your mother is their prisoner likewise 9” said Mor- 
ton, hardly knowing what he said. 

“ In troth is she, riding ahint ye there like a bride, wi’ 
that auld carle o’ a minister that they ca’ Gabriel Kettle- 
drummle — Deil that he had been in the inside of a drum 
or a kettle either, for my share o’ him ! Ye see, we were 
na sooner chased out o’ the doors o’ Milnwood, and your 
uncle and the housekeeper banging them to and barring 
them ahint us, as if we had had the plague on our bodies, 
than I says to my mother, What are we to do neistPfor 
every hole and bore in the country will be steekit against 
us, now that ye hae affronted my auld leddy, and gar’t 
the troopers tak up young Milnwood. Sae she says to 
me, Binna cast doun, but gird yoursell up to the great 
1 * VOL. II. 


6 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


task o’ the day, and gie your testimony like a man upon 
the mount o’ the Covenant.” 

“ And so 1 suppose you went to a conventicle 9” said 
Morton. 

“ Ye sail hear,” continued Cuddie. — “Aweel, I kend 
na muckle better what to do, sae I e’en ga’ed wi’ her to 
an auld daft carline like hersell, and we got some water- 
broo and bannocks ; and mony a weary grace they said, 
and mony a psalm they sang, or they wad let me win to, 
for I was amaist famished wi’ vexation. Aweel, they 
had me up in the grey o’ the morning, and I behoved to 
whig awa wi’ them, reason or nane, to a great gathering 
o’ their folk at the Miry-sikes, and there this chield, Ga- 
briel Keltledrummle, was blasting awa to them on the 
hill-side about lifting up their testimony, nae doubt, and 
ganging down to the battle of Roman Gilead, or some 
sic place. Eh, Mr. Henry ! but the carle gae them a 
screed o’ doctrine ! Ye might hae heard him a mile down 
the wind — He routed like a cow in a fremd* loaning. — 
Weel, thinks I, there’s nae place in this country they ca’ 
Roman Gilead — it will be some gate in the west muir- 
lands ; and or we win there I’ll see to slip awa wi’ this 
mither o’ mine, for I winna rin my neck into a tether for 
ony Kettledrummle in the country side — Aweel,” con- 
tinued Cuddie, relieving himself by detailing his misfor- 
tunes, without being scrupulous concerning the degree of 
attention which his companion bestowed on his narrative, 
“ just as I was wearying for the tail o’ the preaching, cam 
word that the dragoons were upon us. — Some. ran, and 
some cried stand ! and some cried down wi’ the Philistines 
— I was at my mither to get her awa sting and ling or 
the red-coats cam up, but I might as weel hae tried to 
drive our auld fore-a-hand ox without the goad — deil a 
step wad she budge. — Weel, after a’, the cleugh we were 
in was strait, and the mist cam thick, and there was gude 
hope the dragoons wad h^e missed us if we could hae 
held our tongues ; but, as if auld Kettledrummle himsell 
made din eneugh to waken the very dead, they 
a’ to skirl up a psalm that ye wad hae heard as far 


OLD MORTALITY. 


7 


as Latirick ! — Aweel, to mak a lang tale short, up cam 
my young Lord Evandale, skelping as fast as his horse 
could trot, and twenty red-coats at his back. Twa or 
three chields wad needs fight, wi’ the pistol and the 
whinger in the tae hand, and the Bible in the tother, and 
they got their crouns weel cloured ; but there was nae 
rnuckle skaith dune, for Evandale aye cried to scatter us, 
but to spare life.” 

“ And did you not resist V' said Morton, tvho proba- 
bly felt, that, at that moment, he himself would have 
encountered Lord Evandale on much slighter grounds. 

“ Na, truly,” answered Cuddie, “Ikeepit aye before 
the auld woman, and cried for mercy to life and limb ; 
but twa o’ the red-coats cam up, and ane o’ them was 
gaun to strike my mither wi’ the side o’ his broad-sword 
— So I got up my kebbie at them, and said I wad gie 
them as gude. Weel, they turned on me, and clinked 
at me wi’ their swords, and I garr’d my hand keep my 
head as weel as I could till Lord Evandale came up, and 
then I cried out I was a servant at Tillieiudlem — ye 
ken yoursell he was aye judged to hae a look after the 
young leddy — and he bade me fling doun my kent, and 
sae me and my mither yielded oursells prisoners. I’m 
thinking we wad hae been letten slip awa, but Kettle- 
drummle was taen near us — for Andrew Wilson’s naig 
that he was riding on had been a dragooner lang syne, 
and the sairer Kettledrummle spurred to win awa, the 
readier the dour beast ran to the dragoons when he saw 
them draw up. — Aweel, when my mither and him for- 
gathered, they set till the sodgers, and I think they gae 
them their kale through the reek ! Bastards o’ the hure 
o’ Babylon was the best words in their wame. Sae then 
the kiln was in a bleeze again, and they brought us a’ 
three on wi’ them to mak us an example, as they ca’t.” 

“It is most infamous and intolerable oppression !” 
said Morton, half speaking to himself ; “ here is a poor 
peaceable fellow, whose only motive for joining the con- 
venticle was a sense of filial piety, and he is chained up 
like a thief or murderer, and likely to die the death of 


8 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


one, but without the privilege of a formal trial, which 
our laws indulge to the worst malefactor ! Even to wit- 
ness such tyranny, and still more to suffer under it, is 
enough to make the blood of the tamest slave boil within 
him.” 

“ To be sure,” said Cuddie, hearing and partly un- 
derstanding what had broken from Morton in resentment 
of his injuries, “ it is no right to speak evil o’ dignities 
— my auld leddy aye said that, as nae doubt she had a 
gude right to do, being in a place o’ dignity hersell; and 
trolli 1 listened to her very patiently, for she aye or- 
dered a dram, or a soup kale, or something to us, after 
she had gien us a^ hearing on our duties. But deil a 
dram, or kale, or onything else — no sae muckle as a cup 
o’ cauld water — dothae lords at Edinburgh gie us ; and 
yet they are heading and hanging amang us, and trailing 
us after thae blackguard troopers, and taking our goods 
and gear as if we were outlaws. 1 canna say I tak it 
kind at their hands.” 

“ It would be very strange if you did,” answered 
Morton, with suppressed emotion. 

“ And what I like warst o’ a’,” continued poor Cud- 
die, “ is thae ranting red-coats coming amang the lassies 
and taking awa our joes. I had a sair heart o’ my ain 
when 1 passed the Mains down at Tillietudlem this morn- 
ing about parritch-time, and saw the reek cornin’ out at 
my ain lum-head, and kend there was some ither body 
than my auld mither sitting by the ingle-side. But I 
think my heart was e’en saire** when 1 saw that hellicat 
trooper, Tam Halliday, kissing Jenny Dennison afore my 
face. I wonder women can hae the impudence to do 
sic things ; but they are a’ for the red-coats. Whiles I 
hae thought o’ being a trooper mysell, when I thought 
naething else wad gae down wi’ Jenny — and yet I’ll no 
blame her ower muckle neither, for maybe it was a’ foi 
my sake that she loot Tam touzle her tap-knots that gate.’ 

“ For your sake said Morton, unable to refrain 
from taking some interest in a story which seemed to beat 
a singular coincidence with his own. 


OLD MORTALITY. 


9 


“ E’en sae, Milnwood,” replied Cuddle ; “ for the 
Duir quean gat leave to come near me wi’ speaking the 
loon fair, (d — n him, that I suld say sae) and sae she bade 
me God speed, and she wanted to stap siller into my 
hand ; — Fse warrant it was the tae half o’ her fee and 
bountilh, for she wared the ither half on pinners and 
pearlings to gang to see us shoot yon day at the popinjay.” 

“ And did you take it, Cuddle 9” said Morton. 

“ Troth did I no, Milnwood ; I was sic a fule as to 
fling it back to her — my heart was ower grit to be behad- 
den to her, when I had seen that loon slavering and kissing 
at her. But I was a great fule for my pains ; it wad hae 
dune my mither and me some gude, and she’ll ware’t a’ 
on duds and nonsense.” 

There was here a deep and long pause. Cuddle was 
probably engaged in regretting the rejection of his mis- 
tress’s bounty, and Henry Morton in considering from 
what motives, or upon what conditions, Miss Bellenden 
had succeeded in procuring the interference of Lord 
Evandale in his favour. 

“ Was it not possible,” suggested his awakening hopes, 
“ that he had construed her influence over Lord Evan- 
dale hastily and unjustly 9 Ought he to censure her se- 
verely, if, submitting- to dissimulation for his sake, she 
had permitted the young nobleman to entertain hopes 
which she had no intention to realize 9 Or what if she 
had appealed to the generosity which Lord Evandale 
was supposed to possess, and had engaged his honour to 
protect the person of a favoured rival 9” 

Still, however, the words which he had overheard re- 
curred ever and anon to his remembrance, with a pang 
which resembled the sting of an adder. 

“ Nothing that she could refuse him ! — was it possible 
to make a more unlimited declaration of predilection 9 
The language of affection has not, within the limits of 
maidenly delicacy, a stronger expression. She is lost to 
me wholly, and for ever ; and nothing remains for me 
now, but vengeance for my own wrongs, and for those 
which are hourly inflicted on my country.” 


0 


TALES OF MY LANDLOKD. 


Apparently, Cuddle, though with less refinement, was 
following out a similar train of ideas ; for he suddenly 
asked Morton in a low whisper — “ Wad there be ony ill 
in gettino; out o’ thae chields’ hands, an ane could com- 
pass it *?” 

“ None in the world,” said Morton ; ‘‘ and if an op- 
portunity occurs of doing so, depend on it 1 for one will 
not let it slip.” 

“ I’m blithe to hear ye say sae,” answered Cuddle. 
“ I’m but a puir silly fallow, but I canna think there wad 
be muckle ill in breaking out by strength o’ hand, if ye 
could mak it ony thing feasible. I am the lad that will 
ne’er fear to lay on, if it were come to that ; but our 
auld leddy wad hae ca’d that a resisting o’ the King’s au- 
thority.” 

‘‘ I will resist any authority on earth,” said Morton, 

‘ that invades tyrannically my chartered rights as a free- 
man ; and I am determined I will not be unjustly drag- 
ged to a jail, or perhaps a gibbet, if I can possibly make 
my escape from these men either by address or force.” 

“ Weel, that’s just my mind too, aye supposing we 
hae a feasible opportunity o’ breaking loose. But then 
ye speak o’ a charter ; now these are things that only 
belang to the like o’ you that are a gentleman, and it might 
na bear me through, that am but a husbandman.” 

“ The charter that 1 speak of,” said Morton, ‘‘ is 
common to the meanest Scotchman. It is that freedom 
from stripes and bondage which was claimed, as you may 
read in scripture, by the Apostle Paul himself, and which 
every man who is free-born is called upon to defend, for 
his own sake and that of his countrymen.’' 

“ Hegh, sirs !” replied Cuddie, “ it wad hae been 
.ang or my Leddy Margaret, or my mither either, wad 
hae fund out sic a wiselike doctrine in the Bible ! The 
tane was aye graning about giving tribute to Caesar, and 
the tither is as daft wi’ her whiggery. I hae been clean 
spoilt, just wi’ listening to twa blethering auld wives ; but 
if I could get a gentleman that wad let me tak on to be 
his servant, I am confident I wad be a clean contrary 


OLD MORTALITY. 


il 


creature ; and I hope your honour will think on what I 
am saying, if ye were ance fairly delivered out o’ this 
house of bondage, and just take me to be your ain wally- 
de-shamble.” 

“ My valet, Cuddie 9” answered Morton, “ alas ! that 
would be sorry preferment, even if we were at liberty.” 

“ I ken what ye’re thinking — that because I am land- 
ward -bred, I wad be bringing ye to disgrace afore folk ; 
but ye maun ken I’m gay gleg at the uptak ; there was 
never onything dune wi’ hand but I learned gay readily, 
’septing reading, writing, and ciphering ; but there’s no 
the like o’ me at the fit-ba’, and I can play wi’ the broad- 
sword as weel as Corporal Inglis there. I hae broken his 
head or now, for as massy as he’s riding ahint us. — And 
then ye’ll no be gaun to stay in this country — said he^ 
stopping and interrupting himself. 

“ Probably not,” replied Morton. 

Weel, I carena a boddle. Ye see I wad get my 
mither bestowed wi’ her auld graning tittie, auntie Meg, 
in the- Gallowgate o’ Glasgow, and then I trust they wad 
neither burn her for a witch, or let her fail for fau’t o’ 
food, or hang her up for an auld whig wife ; for the pro- 
vost, they say, is very regardful o’ sic puir bodies. And 
then you and me wad gang and pouss our fortunes, like 
the folk i’ the daft auld tales about Jock the Giant-killer, 
and Valentine and Orson ; and we wad come back to 
merry Scotland, as the sang says, and I wad tak to the 
stilts again, and turn sic furs on the bonnie rigs o’ Miln- 
wood holms, that it wad be worth a pint but to look at 
them.” 

“ I fear,” said Morton,” there is very little chance, 
my good friend Cuddie, of our getting back to our old 
occupation.” 

“ Hout, stir — hout, stir,” replied Cuddie, “ it’s aye 
gude to keep up a hardy heart — as broken a ship’s come 
to land. — But what’s that I hear '? never stir, if my auld 
mither isna at the preaching again ! I ken the sough o’ 
her texts, that sound just like the wind blawing through 
the spence ; and there’s Kettledrummle setting to wark. 


12 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


too — Lord’s sake, if the sodgers anes get angry, they’ll 
murder them baith, and us for company !” 

Their farther conversation was in fact interrupted by 
a blatant noise which arose behind them, in which the 
voice of the preacher emitted, in unison with that of the 
old woman, tones like the grumbling of a bassoon combin- 
ed with the screaking of a cracked fiddle. At first, the 
aged pair of sufferers had been contented to condole 
with each other in smothered expressions of complaint 
and indignation ; but the sense of their injuries be- 
came more pungently aggravated as they communicated 
with each other, and they became at length unable to 
suppress their ire. 

“ Woe, woe, and a threefold woe unto you, ye bloody 
and violent persecutors !” exclaimed the Reverend Ga- 
briel Kettledrum mle — “ Woe, and threefold w'oe unto 
you, even to the breaking of seals, the blowing of trum- 
pets, and the pouring forth of vials !” 

“ Ay — ay — a black cast to a’ their ill-faur’d faces, and 
the outside o’ the loof to them at the last day!” echoed 
the shrill counter-tenor of Mause, falling in like the se- 
cond part of a catch. 

“ I tell you,” continued the divine, “ that your rank- 
ings and your ridings — your neighings and your prancings 
— your bloody, barbarous, and inhuman cruelties — your 
benumbing, deadening, and debauching the conscience of 
poor creatures by oaths, soul-damning and self-contradic- 
tory, have arisen from earth to Heaven like a foul and 
hideous outcry of perjury for hastening the wrath to come 
hugh ! hugh ! hugh !” 

“ And I say,” cried Mause, in the same tune, and 
nearly at the same time, “ that wi’ this auld breath o’ 
mine, and it’s sair ta’en down wi’ the asthmatics and this 
rough trot” 

“ Deil gin they would gallop,” said Cuddie, “ wad it 
but gar her baud her tongue !” 

u brief breath,” continued Mause, 

will I testify against the backslidings, defections, de- 


01.D MORTALITY. 


13 


falcalions, and declinings of the land — against the griev- 
ances and the causes of wrath!” ' 

“ Peace, I pr’ythee — Peace, good woman,” said the 
preacher, who had just recovered from a violent fit of 
cougliing, and found his own anathema borne down by 
Mause’s better wind, “ peace, and take not the word out 
of the mouth of a servant of the altar. — 1 say, 1 uplift 
my voice and tell you, that before the play is played out 
— ay, before this very sun gaes down, ye sail learn that 
neither a desperate Judas, like your prelate Sharpe, that’s 
gane to his place ; nor a sanctuary-breaking Holofernes, 
like bloody-minded Claverhouse ; nor an ambitious Dio- 
trephes, like the lad Evandale ; nor a covetous and 
warld-following Demas, like him, they ca’ Sergeant Both- 
well, that makes every wife’s plack and her meal-ark his 
ain ; neither your carabines, nor your pistols, nor your 
broad-swords, nor your horses, nor your saddles, bridles, 
surcingles, nose-bags, nor martingales, shall resist the 
arrows that are whetted and the bow that is bent against 
you!” 

“ That shall they never, I trow,” echoed Mause ; 
“ castaways are they ilk ane o’ them — besoms of destruc- 
tion, fit only to be flung into the fire when they have 
sweepit the filth out o’ the Temple — whips of small cords 
knotted for the chastisement of those wha like their 
warldly gudes and gear better than the Cross or the 
Covenant, but when that wark’s done, only meet to mak 
latchefs to the deil’s brogues.” . 

“ Fiend hae me,” said Cuddie, addressing himself to 
Morton, “ if I dinna think our mither preaches as weel 
as the minister !— But it’s a sair pity o’ his hoast, for it 
aye comes on just when he’s at the best o’t, and that lang 
routing he made air this morning is sair again him too — 
Deil an I care if he wad roar her dumb, and then he 
wad hae’t a’ to answer for himsell — It’s lucky the road’s 
rough, and the troopers are no taking muckle tent to what 
they say wi’ the rattling o’ the horses’ feet ; but an we 
were anes on saft grund, we’ll hear news o’ a’ this.” 

2 VOL. IT. 


14 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


Cuddle’s conjectures were but too true. The words 
of the prisoners had not been much attended to while 
drowned by the clang of horses’ hoofs on a rough and 
stony road ; but they now entered upon the moorlands, 
where the testimony of the two zealous captives lacked 
this saving accompaniment. And, accordingly, no soon- 
er had their steeds begun to tread heath and green- 
sward, and Gabriel Kettledrummle had again raised his 
voice with, “ Also I uplift my voice like that of a pelican 
in the wilderness” 

“ And I mine,” had issued from Mause, “ like a 
sparrow on the house-tops” 

When, “ Hollo, ho !” cried the corporal from the 
rear ; “ rein up your tongues, the devil blister them, or 
I’ll clap a martingale on them.” 

“ I will not peace at the commands of the profane, ’ 
said Gabriel. 

“ Nor I neither,” said Mause, “ for the bidding of no 
earthly potsherd, though it be painted as red as a brick from 
the Tower of Babel, and ca’ itsell a corporal.” 

“ Halliday,” cried the corporal, “ hast got never a 
gag about thee, man 9 — We must stop their mouths be- 
fore they talk us all dead.” 

Ere any answer could be made, or any measure taken 
in consequence of the corporal’s motion, a dragoon gal- 
loped towards Sergeant Bothwell, who was considerably 
a-head of the party, he commanded. On hearing the 
orders which he brought, Bothwell instantly rode back to 
the head of his party, ordered them to close their files, 
to mend their pace, and to move with silence and pre- 
caution, as they would soon be in presence of the enemy 


OLD MORTALITY. 


15 


CHAPTER II. 

Quantum in nobis, weVe thought good 
To save the expense of Christian blood, 

And try if we, by mediation, 

Of treaty, and accommodation. 

Can end the quarrel, and compose 
This bloody duel without blows. 

BtUlcr. 

The increased pace of the party of horsemen soon 
iook away from their zealous captives the breath, if not 
the inclination, necessary for holding forth. They had 
now for more than a mile got free of the woodlands, 
whose broken glades had, for some time, accompanied 
them after they had left the woods of Tillietudlem. A 
few birches and oaks still feathered the narrow ravines, 
or occupied in dwarf-clusters the hollow plains of the 
moor. But these were gradually disappearing ; and a 
wide and waste country lay before them, swelling into bare 
hills of dark heath, intersected by deep gullies ; being 
the passages by which torrents forced their course in 
winter, and, during summer, the disproportioned channels 
for diminutive rivulets that winded their puny way among 
heaps of stones and gravel, the effects and tokens of their 
winter fury ; — like so many spendthrifts dwindled down 
by the consequences of former excesses and extrava- 
gance. This desolate region seemed to extend farther 
than the eye could reach, without grandeur, without even 
the dignity of mountain wildness, yet striking, from the 
huge proportion which it seemed to bear to such more 
favoured spots of the country as were adapted to cultiva- 
tion and fitted for the support of man ; and thereby im- 
pressing irresistibly the mind of the spectator with a sense 
of the omnipotence of nature, and the comparative ineffi- 
cacy of the boasted means of amelioration which man is 


16 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


capable of opposing to the disadvantages of climate and 
soil. 

It is a remarkable effect of such extensive wastes, that 
they impose an idea of solitude even upon those who 
travel through them in considerable numbers ; so much 
is the imagination affected by the disproportion between 
tiie desert around and the party who are traversing it. 
"Thus the members of a caravan of a thousand souls may 
feel, in the deserts of Africa or Arabia, a sense of lone- 
liness unknown to the individual traveller, whose solitary 
course is through a thriving and cultivated country. 

It was not, therefore, without a peculiar feeling of emo- 
tion, that Morton beheld, at the distance of about half a 
mile, the body of the cavalry to which his escort belong- 
ed, creeping up a steep and winding path, which ascend- 
ed from the more level moor into the hills. Their num- 
bers, which appeared formidable when they crowded 
through narrow roads, and seemed multiplied by appear- 
ing partially, and at different points, among the trees, 
were now apparently diminished by being exposed at 
once to view, and in a landscape whose extent bore such 
immense, proportion to the columns of horses and men, 
which, showing more like a drove of black cattle than a 
body of soldiers, crawled slowly along the face of the 
hill, their force and their numbers seeming trifling and 
contemptible. 

“ Surely,” said Morton to himself, “ a handful of 
resolute men may defend any defile in these mountains 
against such a small force as this is, providing that their 
bravery is equal to their enthusiasm.” 

While he made these reflections, the rapid movement 
of the horsemen who guarded him soon traversed the 
space which divided them from their companions ; and 
ere the front of Claverhouse’s column had gained the 
brow of the hill which they had been seen ascending 
Bothwell, with his rear-guard and prisoners, had united 
himself, or nearly so, with the main body led by his com 
mander. The extreme difficulty of the road, which was 
in some places steep, and in others boggy, retarded the 


17 


OLD MORTALITY. 

progress of the column, especially in the rear ; for the 
passage of the main body, in many instances, poached up 
the swamps through which they passed, and rendered 
them so deep, that the last of their followers were forced 
to leave the beaten path, and find safer passage where 
they could. 

On these occasions, the distresses of the Reverend 
Gabriel Kettledrummle and of Mause Headrigg were 
considerably augmented, as the brutal troopers, by whom 
they were guarded, compelled them, at all risks which 
such inexperienced riders were likely to incur, to leap 
their horses over drains and gullies, or to push them 
through morasses and swamps. 

“ Through the help of the Lord, I have luppen ower 
a wall,” cried poor Mause, as her horse was, by her 
rude attendants, brought up to leap the turf inclosure of 
a deserted fold, in which feat her curch flew off, leaving 
her grey hairs uncovered. 

“ I am sunk in deep mire where there is no standing 
— I am come into deep waters where the floods overflow 
me,” exclaimed Kettledrummle, as the charger on which 
he was mounted plunged up to the saddle-girths in a 
well-head, as the springs are called which supply the 
marshes, the sable streams beneath spouting over the face 
and person of the captive preacher. 

These exclamations excited shouts of laughter among 
their military attendants ; but events soon occurred which 
rendered them all sufficiently serious. 

The leading files of the regiment had nearly attained 
the brow of the steep hill we have mentioned, when two 
or three horsemen, speedily discovered to be a part oi 
their own advanced guard, who had acted as a patrole, 
appeared returning at full gallop, their horses much 
blown, and the men apparently in a disordered flight. 
They were followed upon the spur by five or six riders, 
well armed with sword and pistol, who halted upon the 
top of the hill, on observing the approach of the Life, 
Guards. One or two who had carabines dismounted, 
2 * VOL. II. 


18 


TALES or MY LANDLORD. 


and, taking a leisurely and deliberate aim at the foremost 
rank of the regiment, discharged their pieces, by which 
two troopers were wounded, one severely. They then 
mounted their horses, and disappeared over the ridge of 
the hill, retreating with so much coolness as evidently 
showed, that, on the one hand, they were undismayed by 
the approach of so considerable a force as was moving 
against them, and conscious, oh the other, that they were 
supported by numbers sufficient for their protection. 
This incident occasioned a halt through the whole body 
of cavalry ; and while Claverhouse himself received the 
report of his advanced guard, which had been thus driv- 
en back upon the main body. Lord Evandale advanced 
to the top of the ridge over which the enemy’s horsemen 
had retired, and Major Allan, Cornet Grahame, and the 
other officers, employed themselves in extricating the 
regiment from the broken ground, and drawing them up 
on the side of the hill in two lines, the one to support the 
other. • 

The word w^as then given to advance ; and in a few 
minutes the first line stood on the brow and commanded 
the prospect on the other side. The second line closed 
upon them, and also the rear-guard with the prisoners ; 
so that Morton and his companions in captivity, could, in 
like manner, see the form of opposition which was now 
offered to the farther progress of their captors. 

The brow of the hill, on which the royal Life-Guards 
were now drawn up, sloped downwards (on the side op- 
posite to that which they had ascended) with a gentle de- 
clivity, for more than a quarter of a mile, and presented 
ground, which, though unequal in some places, was not 
altogether unfavourable for the manoeuvres of cavalry, 
until near the bottom, when the slope terminated in a 
marshy level, traversed through its whole length by what 
seemed either a natural gulley, or a deep artificial drain, 
the sides of which were broken by springs, trenches fill- 
ed with water, out of which peats and turf had been dug, 
and here and there by some straggling thickets of alders 
which loved the moistness so well, that they continued to 


OLD MOJRTALITT. 


19 


live as bushes, although too much dwarfed by the sour 
soil and the stagnant bog- water to ascend into trees. 
Beyond this ditch, or gulley, the ground arose into a 
second heathy swell, or rather hill, near to the foot of 
which, and as if with the object of defending the broken 
ground and ditch that covered their front, the body of 
insurgents appeared to be drawn up with the purpose of 
abiding battle. 

Their infantry was divided into three lines. The first, 
tolerably provided with fire-arms, were advanced almost 
close to the verge of the bog, so that their fire must ne- 
cessarily annoy the royal cavalry as they descended the 
opposite hill, the whole front of which was exposed, and 
would probably be yet more fatal if they attempted to 
cross the morass. Behind this first line was a body of 
pikemen, designed for their support in case the dragoons 
should force the passage of the marsh. In their rear was 
their third line, consisting of countrymen armed with 
scythes set straight on poles, hay-forks, spits, clubs, 
goads, fish-spears, and such other rustic implements as 
hasty resentment had converted into instruments of war. 
On each flank of the infantry, but a little backward from 
the bog, as if to allow themselves dry and sound ground 
whereon to act in case their enemies should force the 
pass, there was drawn up a small body of cavalry, who 
were, in general, but indifferently armed, and worse 
mounted, but full of zeal for the cause, being chiefly 
either landholders of small property, or farmers of the 
better class, whose means enabled them to serve on 
horseback. A few of those who had been engaged in 
driving back the advanced guard of the royalists, might 
now be seen returning slowly toward their own squadrons. 
These were the only individuals of the insurgent army 
which seemed to be in motion. All the others stood firm 
and motionless, as the grey stones that lay scattered on 
the heath around them. 

The total number of the insurgents might amount to 
about a thousand men ; but of these there were scarce a 
hundred cavalry, nor were the half of them even 


20 


TALES OF MX LANDLORD. 


tolerably armed. The strength of their position, how ■ 
ever, the sense of their having taken a desperate step, 
the superiority of their numbers, but, above all, the ar- 
dour of their enthusiasm, were the means on which their 
leaders reckoned for supplying the want of arms, equi- 
page, and military discipline. 

On the side of the hill that rose above the array of 
battle which they had adopted, were seen the women, and 
even the children, whom zeal, opposed to persecution, 
had driven into the wilderness. They seemed stationed 
there to be spectators of the engagement by which their 
own fate, as well as that of their parents, husbands, and 
sons, was to be decided. Like the females of the an- 
cient German tribes, the shrill cries which they raised, 
when they beheld the glittering ranks of their enemy ap- 
pear on the brow of the opposing eminence, acted as an 
incentive to their relatives to fight to the last in defence of 
that which was dearest to them. Such exhortations 
seemed to have their full and emphatic effect ; for a wild 
halloo, which went from rank to rank on the appearance 
of the soldiers, intimated the resolution of the insurgents 
to fight to the uttermost. 

As the horsemen halted their lines on the ridge of the 
hill, their trumpets and kettle-drums sounded a bold and 
warlike flourish of menace and defiance, that rang along 
the waste like the shrill summons of a destroying angel. 
The wanderers, in answer, united their voices, and sent 
forth, in solemn modulation, the two first verses of the 
seventy-sixth Psalm, according to the metrical version o 
the Scottish Kirk : 

‘‘ In Judah’s land God is well known, 

His name’s in Israel great ; 

In Salem is his tabernacle, 

In Zion is his seat. 

There arrows of the bow he brake. 

The shield, the sword, the war, 

More glorious thou than hills of prey, 

More excellent art far.” 


OLD MORTALITY. 


21 


A shout, or rather a solemn acclamation, attended the 
close of the stanza ; and after a dead pause, the second 
verse was resumed by the insurgents, who applied the 
destruction of the Assyrians as prophetical of the issue 
of their own impending contest : — 

‘‘ Those that were stout of heart are spoiled, 

They slept their sleep outright ; 

And none of those their hands did find; 

That were the men of might. 

When thy rebuke, O Jacob’s God, 

Had forth against them past, 

Their horses and their chariots both 
Were in a deep sleep cast.” 

There was another acclamation, which was followed 
by the most profound silence. 

While these solemn sounds, accented by a thousand 
voices, were prolonged amongst the waste hills, Claver- 
house looked with great attention on the ground, and on 
the order of battle which the wanderers had adopted, 
and in which they determined to await the assault. 

“ The churls,” he said, “ must have some old sol- 
diers with them ; it was no rustic that made choice of 
that ground.” 

“ Burley is said to be with them for certain,” answer- 
ed Lord Evaridale, “ and also Hackstoun of Rathillet, 
Baton of Meadowhead, Cleland, and some other men of 
military skill.” 

“ I judged as much,” said Claverhouse, “ from the 
style in which these detached horsemen leapt their horses 
over the ditch, as they returned to their position. It was 
easy to see that there were a few roundheaded troopers 
amongst them, the true spawn of the old Covenant. We 
must manage this matter warily as well as boldly. Evan- 
dale, let the officers come to this knoll.” 

He moved to a small moss-grown cairn, probably the 
resting-place of some Celtic chief of other times, and the 
call of, “ Officers to the front,” soon brought them around 
their commander. 


22 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


. ‘‘I do not call you around me, gentlemen,” said 
Claverhouse, “ in the form:! I capacity of a council of 
war, for I will never turn over on others the responsibili- 
ty which my rank imposes on myself. I only want the 
benefit of your opinions, reserving to myself, as most men 
do when they ask advice, the liberty of following my 
own. What say you. Cornet Grahame 9 Shall we attack 
these fellows who are bellowing yonder 9 You are young- 
est and hottest, and therefore will speak first whether I 
will or no.” 

“ Then,” said Cornet Grahame, “ while I have the 
honour to carry the standard of the Life-Guards, it shall 
never, with my will, retreat before rebels. I say, charge, 
in God’s name and the King’s !” 

“ And what say you, Allan 9” continued Claverhouse, 
“ for Evandale is so modest we shall never get him to 
speak till you have said what you have to say.” 

“ These fellows,” said Major Allan, an old cavalier 
officer of experience, “ are three or four to one — I should 
not mind that much upon a fair field, but they are posted 
in a very formidable strength, and show no inclination to 
quit it. I therefore think, with deference to Cornet 
Grahame’s opinion, that we should draw back to Tillie- 
tudlem, occupy the pass between the hills and the open 
country, and send for reinforcements to my Lord Ross, 
who is lying at Glasgow with a regiment of infantry. In 
this way we should cut them off from the Strath of Clyde, 
and either compel them to come out of their stronghold, 
and give us battle on fair terms, or if they remain here, 
we will attack them so soon as our infantry has joined us, 
and enabled us to act, with effect among these ditches, 
bogs, and quagmires.” 

“ Pshaw !” said the young Cornet, “ what signifies 
strong ground, when it is only held by a crew of canting, 
psalm-singing old women 

“ A man may fight never the worse,” retorted Major 
Allan, “ for honouring both his Bible and Psalter. These 
fellows will prove as stubborn as steel ; I know them ol 
old.” 


OI.D MORTALITY. 


23 


“ Their nasal psalmody,” said the Cornet, “ reminds 
our Major of the race of Dunbar.” 

“ Had you been at that race, young man,” retorted 
Allan, “ you would have wanted nothing to remind you 
of it for the longest day you had to live.” 

“ Hush, hush, gentlemen,” said Claverhouse, “ these 
are untimely repartees. — I should like your advice well. 
Major Allan, had our rascally patrols (whom I will see 
duly punished) brought us timely notice of the enemies’ 
numbers and position. But having once presented our- 
selves before them in line, the retreat of the Life-Guards 
would argue gross timidity, and be the general signal for 
insurrection throughout the west. In which case, so far 
from obtaining any assistance from my Lord Ross, I pro- 
mise you I should have great apprehensions of his being 
cut off before we can join him, or he us. A retreat 
would have quite the same fatal effect upon the King’s 
cause as the loss of a battle — and as to the difference of 
risk or of safety it might make with respect to ourselves, 
that I am sure, no gentleman thinks a moment about. , 
There must be some gorges or passes in the morass 
through which we can force our way ; and, were we once 
on firm ground, I trust there is no man in the Life-Guards 
who supposes our squadrons, though so weak in numbers, 
are unable to trample into dust twice the number of these 
unpractised clowns. What say you, my Lord Evandale 
‘‘ I humbly think,” said Lord Evandale, “ that, go 
the day how it will, it must be a bloody one ; and that 
we shall lose many brave fellows, and probably be oblig- 
ed to slaughter a great number of these misguided men, 
who, after all, are Scotchmen, and subjects of King 
Charles, as well as we are.” 

“ Rebels ! rebels i and undeserving the name either of 
Scotchmen or of subjects,” said Claverhouse ; “ but 
come, my lord, what does your opinion point at 9” 

“ To enter into a treaty with these ignorant and mis- 
led men,” said the young nobleman. 

A treaty ! and with rebels having arms in their 
hands ? Never, while I live,” answered his commander. 


24 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


“ At least send a trumpet and flag of truce, summon- 
ing them to lay down their weapons and disperse,'’ said 
Lord Evandale, ‘‘ upon promise of a free pardon — 1 
have always heard that Had that been done before the 
battle of Pentland hills, much blood might have been 
saved.” 

“ Well,” said Claverhouse, “ and who the devil do 
you think would carry a summons to these headstrong 
and desperate fanatics They acknowledge no laws ot 
war. Their leaders, who have been all most active in 
the murder of the Archbishop of St. Andrews, fight with 
a rope round their necks, and are likely to kill the mes- 
senger were it but to dip their followers in loyal blood, 
and to make them as desperate of pardon as themselves.” 

“ I will go myself,” said Evandale, “ if you will per- 
mit me. I have often risked my blood to spill that of 
others, let me do so now in order to save human lives.” 

“ You shall not go on such an errand, my lord,” said 
Claverhouse ; “ your rank and situation render your 
safety of too much consequence to the country in an age 
when good principles are so rare. — Here’s my brother’s 
son, Dick Grahame, who fears shot or steel as little as if 
the devil had given him armour of proof against it, as 
the fanatics say he has given to his uncle. ^ He shall 
take a flag-of-truce and a trumpet, and ride down to the 
edge of the morass to summon them to lay down their 
arms and disperse.” 

“ With all my soul. Colonel,” answered the Cornet ; 
“ and I’ll tie my cravat on a pike to serve for a white 
flag — the rascals never saw such a pennon of Flanders 
lace in their lives before.” 

“ Colonel Grahame,” said Evandale, while the young 
officer prepared for his expedition, “ this young gentle- 
man is your nephew and your apparent heir ; for God’s 
sake, permit me to go. It was my counsel, and I ought 
to stand the risk.” 

“ Were he my only son,” said Claverhouse, “ this is 
no cause and no time to spare him. I hope my private 
affections will never interfere with my public duty. Il 


OLD MORTALITY. 


25 


Dick Grabame falls, the loss is chiefly mine ; were your 
lordship to die, the King and country would be the suf- 
ferers. — Come, gentlemen, each to his post. Jf ouf 
summons is unfavourably received, we will instantl) 
attack ; and, as the old Scottish blazon has it, God shaw 
tlie right !” 


CHAPTER III. 

With many a stout thwack and many a bang, 

Hard crab-tree and old iron rang. 

, Hiidibras. 

Cornet Richard Grahame descended the hill, 
bearing in his hand the extempore flag of truce, and 
making his managed horse keep time by bounds and cur- 
vets to the tune which he . whistled. The trumpeter fol- 
lowed. Five or six horsemen, having something the 
appearance of officers, detached themselves from each 
flank of the presbyterian army, and, meeting in the cen- 
tre, approached the ditch which divided the hollow as near 
as the morass would permit. Towards this group, but 
keeping the opposite side of the swamp. Cornet Gra- 
hame directed his horse, his motions being now the con- 
spicuous object of attention to both armies ; and, without 
disparagement to the courage of either, it is probable 
there was a general wish on both sides that this embassy 
might save the risks and bloodshed of the impending 
conflict. 

When he had arrived right opposite to those, who, by 
their advancing to receive his message, seemed to take 
upon themselves as the leaders of the enemy. Cornet 
Grahame commanded his trumpeter to sound a parley. 
The insurgents having no instrument of martial music 
wherewith to make the appropriate reply, one of their 
3 VOL. II. 


26 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


number called out with a loud, strong voice, demanding 
to know why he approached their leaguer. 

“ To summon you in the King’s name, and in that of 
Colonel John Grahame of Claverhouse, specially com- 
missioned by the right honourable Privy Council of 
Scotland,” answered the Cornet, “ to lay down your 
arms and dismiss the followers whom ye have led into 
rebellion, contrary to the .laws of God, of the. King, and 
of the country.” 

“ Return to them that sent thee,” said the insurgent 
leader, “ and tell them that we are this day in arms for a 
broken Covenant and a persecuted Kirk ; tell them that 
we renounce the licentious and perjured Charles Stuart, 
whom you call King, even as he renounced the Covenant, 
after having once and again sworn to prosecute to the 
utmost of his power all the ends thereof, really, constant- 
ly, and sincerely, all the days of his life, having no ene- 
mies but the enemies of the Covenant, and no friends but 
its friends. Whereas, far from keeping the oath he had 
called God and angels to witness, his first step, after his 
incoming into these kingdoms, was the fearful grasping at 
the prerogative of the Almighty, by that hideous Act of 
Supremacy, together with his expulsing, without sum- 
mons, libel, or process of law, hundreds of famous faith- 
ful preachers, thereby wringing the bread of life out of 
the mouth of hungry, poor creatures, and forcibly cram- 
ming their throats with the lifeless, saltless, foisonless, 
lukewarm drammock of the fourteen false prelates, and 
their sycophantic, formal, carnal, scandalous creature- 
curates.” 

“ I did not come to hear you preach,” answered the 
officer, “ but to know, in one word, if you will disperse 
yourselves, on condition of a free pardon to all but the 
murderers of the late Archbishop of St. Andrews ; or 
whether you will abide the attack of his Majesty’s forces, 
which will instantly advance upon you.” 

“ In one word, then,” answered the spokesman, “ we 
are here with our swords on our thighs, as men that watch 
in the night. We will take one part and portion togeth- 


OT.n MORTALri'Y. 


27 


er, as brethrc'n i:i lii i:toousness. Whosoever assails us 
in our good liis Wood be on his own head. So 

return to them that .'■l mI tliee, and God give them and 
thee a sight of the evil oi } '):ir uays !” 

“ Is not your name,” sum tin' Cornet, who began to 
recollect having seen the person wiiom he was now speak- 
ing with, “ John Balfour of Burley 7” 

“ And if it be,” said the spokesman, “ hast thou aught 
to say against it 

“ Only,” said the Cornet, “ that as you are excluded 
from pardon in the name of the King and of my com- 
manding officer, it is to these country people and not to 
you that I offer it ; and it is not with you, or such as 
you, that I am sent to treat.” 

“ Thou art a young soldier, friend,” said Burley, 
“ and scant well learned in thy trade, or thou wouldst 
know that the bearer of a flag of truce cannot treat with 
the army but through their officers ; and that if he pre- 
sume to do otherwise, he forfeits his safe conduct.” 

While speaking these words, Burley unslung his cara- 
bine, and held it in readiness. 

‘‘ I am not to be intimidated from the discharge of my 
duty by the menaces of a murderer,” said Cornet Gra- 
hame. — “ Hear me, good people ; I proclaim in the name 
of the King and of my commanding officer, full and free 
pardon to all, excepting” 

“ I give thee fair warning,” said Burley, presenting 
his piece. 

“ A free pardon to all,” continued the young officer, 
still addressing the body of the insurgents — “ to all 
but” 

“ Then the Lord grant grace to thy soul — amen!” 
said Burley. 

With these words he fired, and Cornet Richard Gra- 
hame dropped from his horse. The shot was mortal. 
The unfortunate young gentleman had only strength to 
turn himself on the ground and mutter forth, “ My poor 
mother I” when life forsook him in the effort. His start 


28 


TALES or Ml LANDLORD. 


led horse fled back to the regiment at the gallop, as did 
his scarce less-afFrighted attendant. 

“ What have you done 9” said one of Balfour’s 
brother officers. 

“ My duty,” said Balfour, firmly. “ Is it not written, 
thou shalt be' zealous, even , to slaying Let those who 
dare, now venture to speak of truce or pardon !” 

Claverhouse saw his nephew fall. He turned his eye 
on Evandale, while a transitory glance of indescribable 
emotion disturbed, for a second’s space, the serenity of 
his features, and briefly said, “ You see the event.” 

“ I will avenge him or die !” exclaimed Evandale ; 
“ and, putting his horse into motion, rode furiously down 
the hill, followed by his own troop, and that of the de- 
ceased Cornet, which broke down without orders ; and, 
each striving to be the foremost to revenge their young 
officer, their ranks soon fell into confusion. These forces 
formed the first line of the royalists. It was in vain 
that Claverhouse exclaimed, ‘‘ Halt, halt ! this rashness 
will undo us.” It was all that he could accomplish by 
galloping along the second line, entreating, commanding, 
and even menacing the men with his sword, that he could 
restrain them from following an example so contagious. 

‘‘ Allan,” he said, as soon as he had rendered the 
men in some degree more steady, “ lead them slowly 
down the hill to support Lord Evandale, who is about to 
need it very much. — Both well, thou art a cool and a 
daring fellow” 

“ Ay,” muttered Bothwell, “ you can remember that 
in a moment like this.” 

Lead ten file up the hollow to the right,” continued 
his commanding officer, ‘‘ and try every means to get 
through the bog ; then form and charge the rebels in 
flank and rear, while they are engaged with us in front. 

Bothwell made a signal of intelligence and obedience 
and moved off with his party at a rapid pace. 

Meantime, the disaster which Claverhouse had appre- 
hended did not fail to take place. The troopers, who^ 
with Lord Evandale, had rushed down upon the enemy 


OLD MORTALITY. 


29 


soon found their disorderly career interrupted by the im- 
practicable character of the ground. Some stuck fast in 
the morass as they attempted to struggle through, some 
recoiled from the attempt and remained on the brink, 
others dispersed to seek a more favourable place to pass 
the swamp. In the midst of this confusion, the first line 
of the enemy, of which the foremost rank knelt, the se- 
cond stooped, and the third stood upright, poured in a 
close and destructive fire that emptied at least a score ol 
saddles, and increased tenfold the disorder into which the 
horsemen had fallen. Lord Evandale, in the mean time, 
at the head of a very few well-mounted men, had been 
able to clear the ditch, but was no sooner across than he 
was charged by the left body of the enemy’s cavalry, 
who, encouraged by the small number of opponents that 
had made their way through the broken ground, set upon 
them with the utmost fury, crying, “ Woe, woe to the 
uncircumcised Philistines ! down with Dagon and all his 
adherents !” 

The young nobleman fought like a lion ; but most of 
his followers were killed, and he himself could not have 
escaped the same fate but for a heavy fire of carabines, 
which Claverhouse,who had now advanced with the second 
line near to the ditch, poured so effectually upon the en- 
emy, that both horse and foot for a moment began to 
shrink, and Lord Evandale, disengaged from his unequal 
combat, and finding himself nearly alone, took the op- 
portunity to effect his retreat through the morass. But 
notwithstanding the loss they had sustained by Claver- 
house’s first fire, the insurgents became soon aware that 
the advantage of numbers and of position were so deci- 
dedly theirs, that, if they could but persist in making a 
brief but resolute defence, the Life-Guards must neces- 
sarily he defeated. Their leaders flew through their 
ranks, exhorting them to stand firm, and pointing out how 
efficacious their fire must be w^here both men and horse 
were exposed to it ; for the troopers, according to cus- 
tom, fired without having dismounted. Claverhouse, 

3* VOL. II. 


30 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


more than once, when he perceived his best men drop- 
ping by a fire which they coidd not effectually return, 
made desperate efforts to pass the bog at various points, 
and renew the battle on firm ground and fiercer terms. 
But the close fire of the insurgents, joined to the natural 
difficulties of the pass, foiled his attempts in every point. 

“ We must retreat,” he said to Evandale,“ unless Both- 
well can effect a diversion in our favour. In the mean 
time, draw the men out of fire, and leave skirmishers 
behind these patches of alder-bushes to keep the enemy 
in check.” 

These directions being accomplished, the appearance 
of Bothwell with his party was earnestly expected. But 
Bothwell had his own disadvantages to struggle with. 
His detour to the ri^ht had not escaped the penetrating 
observation of Burley, who made a corresponding move- 
ment with the left wing of the mounted insurgents, so 
that when Bothwell, after riding a considerable way up 
the valley, found a place at which the bog could be pass- 
ed, though with some difficulty, he perceived he was still 
in front of a superior enemy. His daring character was 
in no degree checked by this unexpected opposition. 

“ Follow me, my lads,” he called to his men ; “ never 
let it be said that we turned our backs before these cant- 
ing roundheads !” 

With that, as if inspired by the spirit of his ancestors, 
he shouted, “ Bothwell ! Bothwell !” and throwing him- 
self into the morass, he struggled through it at the head 
of his party, and attacked that of Burley with such fury, 
that he drove them back above a pistol-shot, killing three 
men with his own hand. Burley, perceiving the conse- 
quences of a defeat on this point, and that his men, 
though more numerous, were unequal to the regulars in 
using their arms and managing their horses, threw himself 
across BothwelFs way, and attacked him hand to hand. 
Each of the combatants was considered as the champion 
of his respective party, and a result ensued more usual 
in romance than in real story. Their followers, on either 
Side, instantly paused, and looked on as if the fate of the 


OLD MORTALITY. 


31 


day were to be decided by the event of the combat be- 
tween these two redoubted swordsmen. The combat- 
ants themselves seemed of the same opinion ; for, after 
two or three eager cuts and pushes had been exchanged, 
they paused, as if by joint consent, tb recover the breath 
which preceding exertions had exhausted, and to prepare 
for a duel in which each seemed conscious he had met 
his match. 

“ You are the murdering villain, Burley,” said Both- 
well, griping his sword firmly, and setting his teeth close 
— “ you escaped me once, but” — (he swore an oath too 
tremendous to be written down) “ thy bead is worth its 
weight of silver, and it shall go home at my saddle-bow, 
or my saddle shall go home empty for me.” 

“ Yes,” replied Burley, .with stern and gloomy delib- 
eration, “ I am that John Balfour, who promised to lay 
thy head where thou should’st never lift it again ; and 
God do so unto me, and more also, if I do not redeem my 
word !” 

“ Then a bed of heather, or a thousand merks !” said 
Bothwell, striking at Burley with his full force. 

“ The sword of the Lord and of Gideon !” answered 
Balfour, as he parried and returned the blow. 

There have seldom met two combatants more equally 
matched in strength of body, skill in the management of 
their weapons and horses, determined courage, and unre- 
lenting hostility. After exchanging many desperate blows, 
each receiving and inflicting several wounds, though of no 
great consequence, they grappled together as if with the 
desperate impatience of mortal hate, and Bothwell, seiz- 
ing his enemy by the shoulder-belt, while the grasp of 
Balfour was upon his own collar, they came headlong to 
the ground. The companions of Burley hastened to his 
assistance, but were repelled by the dragoons, and the 
battle became again general. But nothing could withdraw 
the attention of the combatants from each other, or induce 
them to unclose the deadly clasp in which they rolled to- 
gether on the ground, tearing, struggling, and foaming 
with the inveteracy of thorough-bred bull-dogs 


32 


TAXES OF MY XANDXORD. 


Several horses passed over them in the melee without 
their quitting hold of each other, until the sword-arm of 
l^othvvell was broken by the kick of a charger. He then 
relinquished his grasp with a deep and suppressed groan, 
and both combatants started to their feet. Bothwell’s 
right hand dropped helpless by his side, but his left griped 
to the place where his dagger hung ; it had escaped from 
the sheath in the struggle, — and, with a look of mingled 
rage and despair, he stood totally defenceless, as Balfour 
whlh a laugh of savage joy, flourished his sword aloft, and 
then passed it through his adversary’s body. Bothwell 
received the thrust without falling — it had only grazed on 
his ribs. He attempted no farther defence, but looking 
at Burley with a grin of deadly hatred, exclaimed, — “Base 
peasant churl, thou hast spilt the blood of a line of kings !” 

“ Die, wretch ! — die !” said Balfour, redoubling the 
thrust with better aim ; and, setting his foot on Bothwell’s 
body as he fell, he a third time transfixed him with his 
sword. — Die, blood-thirsty dog ! die, as thou hast lived ! 
— die, like the beasts that perish — hoping nothing — be- 
lieving nothing” — 

“ And FEARING nothing !” said Bothwellj collecting the 
last effort of respiration to utter these desperate words, 
and expiring as soon as they were spoken. 

To catch a stray horse by the bridle, throw himself up- 
on it, and rush to the assistance of his followers, was, with 
Burley, the affair of a moment. And as the fall of Both- 
well had given to the insurgents all the courage of which 
it had deprived his comrades, the issue of th^s partial con- 
test did not remain long undecided. Several soldiers 
were slain, the rest driven back over the morass and dis- 
persed, and the victorious Burley, with his party, crossed 
it in their turn, to direct against Claverhouse the very 
manoeuvre which he had instructed Bothwell to execute. 
He now put his troop in order, with the vieW of attacking 
the right wing of the royalists ; and, sending news of his 
success to the main body, exhorted them, in the name ol 
Heaven, to cross the marsh, and work out the glorious 
work of the Lord by a general attack upon the enemy 


OLD MORTALITY. 


33 


Meanwhile, Claverhouse, who had in some degree rem- 
edied the confusion occasioned hy the first irregular and 
unsuccessful attack, and reduced the combat in front to a 
distant skirmish with fire-arms, chiefly maintained by some 
dismounted troopers, whom he had posted behind the 
cover of the shrubby copses of alders, which, in some 
places, covered the edge of the morass, and whose close, 
cool, and well-aimed fire greatly annoyed the enemy, and 
concealed their own deficiency of numbers, — Claver- 
house, while he maintained the contest in this manner, still 
expecting that a diversion by Bothwell and his party might 
facilitate a general attack, was accosted by one of the 
dragoons, whose bloody face and jaded horse bore wit- 
ness he was come from hard service. 

‘‘ What is the matter, Halliday said Claverhouse, 
for he knew every man in his regiment by name — “ Where 
is Bothwell 9” 

“ Bothwell is down,” replied Halliday, “ and many, a 
pretty fellow with him.” 

“ Then the King,” said Claverhouse, with his usual 
composure, “ has lost a stout soldier. The enemy have 
passed the marsh, I suppose *?” 

“ With a strong body of horse, commanded by the devil 
incarnate that killed Bothwell,” answered the terrified 
soldier. 

“ Hush ! Hush !” said Claverhouse, putting his finger 
on his lips ; “ not a word to any one but me. — Lord 
Evandale, we must retreat. The fates will have it so. 
Draw together the men that are dispersed in the skirmish- 
ing work. Let Allan form the regiment, and do you two 
retreat up the hill in two bodies, each halting alternately 
as the other falls back. I’ll keep the rogues in check with 
the rear-guard, making a stand and facing from time to 
time. They will be over the ditch presently, for I see 
their whole line in motion, and preparing to cross ; there- 
fore lose no time. 

‘‘ Where is Bothwell with his party 9” said Lord Evan- 
dale, astonished at the coolness of his commander- 


34 


TALES OF MY LANDLOFID. 


“ Fairly disposed of,” said Claverhouse, in his ear — 
‘ the King has lost a servant, and the devil has got one. 
But away to business, Evandale — ply your spurs and get 
the men together. Allan and you must keep them steady. 
This retreating is new work for us all 5 but our turn will 
come round another day.” 

Evandale and Allan betook themselves to their task ; 
but ere they had arranged the regiment for the purpose 
of retreating in two alternate bodies, a considerable num- 
ber of the enemy had crossed the marsh. Claverhouse, 
who had retained immediately around his person a few of 
his most active and tried men, charged those who bad 
crossed in person, while they were yet disordered by the 
broken ground. Some they killed, others they repulsed 
into the morass, and checked the whole so as to enable 
the main body, now greatly diminished, as well as dis- 
heartened by the loss they had sustained, to commence 
their retreat up the hill. 

But the enemy’s van being soon reinforced and sup- 
ported, compelled Claverhouse to follow his troops. Nev- 
er did man, however, better maintain the character of a 
soldier than he did that day. Conspicuous by his black 
horse and white feather, he was first in the repeated 
charges which he made at every favourable opportunity, 
to arrest the progress of the pursuers, and to cover the 
retreat of his regiment. The object of aim to every one, 
he seemed as if he were impassive to their shot. The 
superstitious fanatics, who looked upon him as a man 
gifted by the Evil Spirit with supernatural means of de- 
fence, averred that they saw the bullets recoil from his 
jack-boots and buff- coat like hailstones from a rock of 
granite, as he galloped to and fro amid the storm of the 
battle. Many a whig that day loaded his musket with a 
dollar cut into slugs, in order that a silver bullet (such 
was their belief) might bring down the persecutor of the 
holy kirk, on whom lead had no power. 

“ Try him with the cold steel,” was the cry at every 
renewed charge — “ powder is wasted on him. Ye might 
as weel shoot at the Auld Enemy himsell.”^ 


OLD MORTALITY; 


35 


But though this was loudly shouted, yet the awe on the 
iisurgents minds was such, that they gave way before 
Claverhouse as before a supernatural being, and few men 
ventured to cross swords with him. Still, however, he 
was fighting in retreat, and with all the disadvantages at- 
tending that movement. The soldiers behind him, as 
they beheld the increasing number of enemies who pour- 
ed over the morass, became unsteady ; and, at every suc- 
cessive movement. Major Allan and Lord Evandale found 
it more and more difficult to bring them to halt and form 
line regularly, while, on the other hand, their motions in 
the act of retreating became, by degrees, much more 
rapid than was consistent with good order. As the retiring 
soldiers approached nearer to the top of the ridge, from 
which in so luckless an hour they had descended, the panic 
began to increase. Every one became impatient to place 
the brow of the hill between him and the continued fire of 
the pursuers, nor could any individual think it reasonable 
that he should be the last in the retreat, and thus sacrifice 
his own safety for that of others. In this mood, several 
troopers set spurs to their horses and fled outright, and 
the others became so unsteady in their movements and 
formations, that their officers every moment feared they 
would follow the same example. 

Amid this scene. of blood and confusion, the trampling 
of the horses, the groans of the wounded, the continued 
fire of the enemy, which fell in a succession of uninter- 
mitted musketry, while loud shouts accompanied each 
bullet which the fall of a trooper showed to have been 
successfully aimed — amid all the terrors and disorders of 
such a scene, and when it was dubious how soon they 
might be totally deserted by their dispirited soldiery, 
Evandale could" not forbear remarking the composure of 
his commanding officer. Not at Lady Margaret’s break- 
fast-table that morning did his eye appear more lively, or 
his demeanour more composed. He had closed up to 
Evandale for the purpose of giving some orders, and pick- 
ng out a few men to reinforce his rear-guard. 


36 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


“ If this bout lasts five minutes longer,” he said, in a whis- 
per, “ our rogues will leave you, my lord, old Allan, and 
myself, the honour of fighting this battle with our own hands. 
I must do something to disperse the musketeers wdio an- 
noy them so hard, or we shall be all shamed. Don’t at- 
tempt to succour me if you see me go down, but keep at 
the head of your men ; get off as you can, in God’s name,, 
and tell the King and the council I died in my duty!” 

So saying, and commanding about twenty stout men to 
follow him, he gave, with this small body, a charge so 
desperate and unexpected, that he drove the foremost of 
the pursuers back to some distance. In the confusion of 
the assault he singled out Burley, and, desirous to strike 
terror into his followers, he dealt him so severe a blow on 
the head, as cut through his steel head-piece, and threw 
him from his horse, stunned for the moment, though un- 
woiinded. A wonderful thing it was afterwards thought, 
that one so powerful as Balfour should have sunk under 
the blow of a man, to appearance, so slightly made as 
Claverhouse ; and the vulgar, of course, set down to su- 
pernatural aid, the effect of that energy which a deter- 
mined spirit can give to a feebler arm. Claverhouse had, 
in this last charge, however, involved himself too deeply 
among the insurgents, and was fairly surrounded. 

Lord Evandale saw the danger of his commander, his 
body of dragoons being then halted, while that command- 
ed by Allan was in the act of retreating. Regardless of 
Claverhouse’s disinterested command to the contrary, he 
ordered the part}^ which he headed to charge down 
hill and extricate their Colonel. Some advanced with 
him — most halted and stood uncertain — many ran away. 
With those who followed Evandale, he disengaged Cla- 
verhouse. His assistance just came in time, foi' a rustic 
had wounded his horse in a most ghastly manner by the 
blow of a scythe, and was about to repeat the stroke when 
Lord Evandale cut him down. As they got out of the 
press, they looked round them. Allan’s division had 
ridden clear over the hill, that officer’s authority having 


OLD -MORTALITY. 


37 


proved altogether unequal to halt them. Evandale’s troop 
was scattered and in total confusion. 

“ What is to be done, Colonel said Lord Evandale. 

“ We are the last men in the field, I think,” said Cla- 
verhouse ; “ and when men fight as long as they can there 
is no shame in flying. Hector himself would say,. ‘ devil 
take the hindmost,’ when there are but twenty against a 
thousand. — Save yourselves, rny lads, and rally as soon 
as you can. — Come, my lord, we must e’en ride for it.” 

So saying, he put spurs to his wounded horse ; and the 
generous animal, as if conscious that the life of his rider 
depended on his exertions, pressed forward with speed, 
unabated either by pain or loss of blood, ^ A few officers 
and soldiers followed him, but in a very irregular and tu- 
multuary manner. The flight of Claverhouse was the 
signal for all the stragglers, who yet offered desultory re- 
sistance, to fly as fast as they could, and yield up the field 
of battle to the victorious insurgents. 


CHAPTER IV. 

But see ! through the fast-flashing lightnings of war, 

What steed to the desert flies frantic and far ? 

Campbell. 

During the severe skirmish of which we have given 
the details, Morton, together with Cuddie and his mother, 
and the Reverend Gabriel Kettledrummle, remained on 
the brow of the hill, near to the small cairn, or barrow, 
beside which Claverhouse had held his preliminary coun- 
cil of war, so that they had a commanding view of the 
action which took place in the bottom. They were guard- 
ed by Corporal Inglis and four soldiers, who, as may 
readily be supposed, were much more intent on watching 
4 VOL. II. 


38 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


the fluctuating fortunes of the battle, than in attending tti 
what passed among their prisoners. 

“ If yon lads stand to their tackle,” said Cuddie, 
“ we’ll hae some chance o’ getting our. necks out o’ the 
brecham again ; but I misdoubt them, they hae little skeel 
o’ arms.” 

“ Much is not necessary, Cuddie,” answered Morton ; 
“ they have a strong position, and weapons in their hands, 
and are more than three times the number of their assail- 
ants. If they cannot fight for their freedom now, they 
and theirs deserve to lose it forever.” 

“ O, sirs,” exclaimed Mause, “ here’s a goodly spec- 
tacle indeed ! My spirit is like that of the blessed Elihu, 
it burns within me — my bowels are as wine which lacketh 
vent — they are ready to burst like new bottles. O, that 
He may look after His ain people in this day of judgment 
and deliverance ! — And now, what ailest thou, precious 
Mr. Gabriel Kettledrummle 9 I say, what ailest thou, that 
wert a Nazarite purer than snow, whiter than milk, more 
ruddy than sulphur, (meaning, perhaps, sapphires) — 1 say, 
what ails thee now, that thou art blacker than a coal, that 
thy beauty is departed, and thy loveliness withered like 
a dry potsherd “? Surely it is time to be up and be doing, 
to cry loudly, and to spare not, and to wrestle for the puir 
lads that are yonder testifying with their ain blude and 
that of their enemies.” 

This expostulation implied a reproach on Mr. Kettle- 
drummle, who, though an absolute Boanerges, or son of 
thunder, in the pulpit, when the enemy were afar, and 
indeed sufficiently contumacious, as we have seen, when 
in their power, had been struck dumb by the firing, shouts 
and shrieks, which now arose from the valley, and — as 
many an honest man might have been, in a situation where 
he could neither fight nor fly, — was too much dismayed 
to take so favourable an opportunity to preach the terrors 
of presbytery, as the courageous Mause had expected at 
his hand, or even to pray for the successful event of the 
battle. His presence of mind was not however, entirely 


OLD MORTALITY. 


39 


ost, any more than Lis jealous respect for his reputation 
as a pure and powerful preacher of the word. 

“ Hold your peace, womanl” he said, “ and do not per- 
turb my inward meditations and the wrestlings wherewith 
I wrestle. But of a verity the shooting of the foemen doth 
begin to increase ! peradventure, some pellet may attain 
unto us even here. Lo ! I will ensconce me behind the 
cairn, as behind a strong wall of defence.” 

“ He’s but a coward body after a’,” said Cuddie, who 
was himself by no means deficient in that sort of courage 
which consists in insensibility to danger ; “ he’s but a 
daidling coward body. He’ll never fill Rumbleberry’s 
bonnet. — Odd ! Rumbleberry fought and flyted like a 
fleeing dragon. It was a great pity, puir man, he could 
na cheat the woodie. But they say he gaed singing and 
rejoicing till’t, just as I wad gang to a bicker o’ brose, sup- 
posing me hungry, as I stand a gude chance to be. — Eh, 
sirs ! yon’s an awfu’ sight, and yet ane canna keep their 
een atf frae it !” 

Accordingly, strong curiosity on the part of Morton and 
Cuddie, together with the heated enthusiasm of old Mause, 
detained them on the spot from which they could best 
hear and see the issue of the action, leaving to Kettle- 
drummle to occupy alone his place of security. The 
vicissitudes of combat, which we have already described, 
were witnessed by our spectators from the top of the em- 
inence, but without their being able positively to deter- 
mine to what they tended. That the presbyterians de- 
fended themselves stoutly, was evident from the heavy 
smoke, which, illumined by frequent flashes of fire, now 
eddied along the valley, and hid the contending parties in 
'ts sulphureous shade. On the other hand, the continued 
firing from the nearer side of the morass indicated that 
the enemy persevered in their attack, that the affair was 
fiercely disputed, and that every thing was to be appre- 
hended from a continued contest, in which undisciplined 
rustics had to repel the assaults of regular troops so com- 
pletely officered and armed. 


40 


TALES OE MY LANDLORD. 


At length horses, whose caparisons showed that they 
belonged to the Life-Guards, began to fly masterless out 
of the confusion. Dismounted soldiers next appeared, 
forsaking the conflict, and straggling over the side of the 
hill, in order to escape from the scene of action. As the 
numbers of these fugitives increased, the fate of the day 
seemed no longer doubtful. A large body was then seen 
emerging from the smoke, forming irregularly on the liill- 
sicle, and with difficulty kept stationary by their officers, 
until Evandale’s corps also appeared in full retreat. The 
result of the conflict was then apparent, and the joy of 
the prisoners was corresponding to their approaching de- 
liverance. 

“ They hae dune the job for anes,” said Cuddie, “ an’ 
they ne’er do’t again.” 

“ They flee ! — they flee !” exclaimed Mause, in ec- 
stasy. “ O, the truculent tyrants ! they are riding now as 
they never rode before. O, the false Egyptians — the 
proud Assyrians — the Philistines — the Moabites — the Ed- 
omites — the Ishmaelites ! — The Lord has brought sharp 
swords upon them, to make them food for the fowls of 
heaven and the beasts of the field. See how the clouds 
roll, and the fire flashes ahint them, and goes forth before 
the chosen of the Covenant, e’en like the pillar o’ cloud 
and the pillar o’ flame that led the people of Israel out o’ 
the land of Egypt ! This is indeed a day of deliverance 
to the righteous, a day of pouring out of wrath to the 
persecutors and the ungodly!” 

“ LorcT save us, mither,” said Cuddie, “ baud the clav- 
ering tongue o’ ye, and lie down ahint the cairn, like Ket- 
tledrummle, honest man. The whigamore bullets ken 
unco little discretion, and will just as sune knock out the 
barns o’ a psalm-singing auld wife as a swearing dragoon.” 

■ “ Fear naething for me, Cuddie,” said the old dame, 
transported to ecstasy by the success of her party ; fear 
naething for me ! 1 will stand, like Deborah, on the tap 
o’ the cairn, and tak up my sapgo’ reproach against these 
men of Harosheth of the Gentiles, whose horse-hoofs 
are broken by their prancing.” 


OLD MORTALITY- 


41 


The enthusiastic old woman would in fact have accom- 
plished her purpose, of mounting on the cairn, and be- 
coming, as she said, a sign and a banner to the people 
had not Cuddie, with more filial tenderness than respect, 
detained her by such force as his shackled arms would 
permit him to exert. 

“ Eh, sirs !” he said, having accomplished this task, 
“ look out yonder, Milnwood ; saw ye ever mortal fight 
like the deevil Claver’se — Yonder he’s been thrice doun 
amang them, and thrice cam free afF. — But I think we’ll 
soon be free oursells, Milnwood. Inglis and his troopers 
look ower their shouthers very aften, as if they liked the 
road ahint them better than the road afore.” 

Cuddie was not mistaken ; for, when the main tide of 
fugitives passed at a little distance from the spot where 
they were stationed, the corporal and his party fired their 
carabines at random upon the advancing insurgents, and, 
abandoning all charge of their prisoners, joined the re- 
treat of their comrades. Morton and the old woman, 
whose hands were at libert/, lost no time in undoing the 
bonds of Cuddie and of the clergyman, both of whom 
had been secured by a cord tied round their arms above 
the elbows. By the time this was accomplished, the rear- 
guard of the dragoons, which still preserved some order, 
passed beneath the hillock or rising ground which was 
surmounted by the cairn already repeatedly mentioned. 
They exhibited all the hurry and confusion incident to a 
forced retreat, but still continued in a body. Claverhouse 
led the van, his naked sword deeply dyed with blood, as 
were his face and clothes. His horse was all covered 
with gore, and now reeled with weakness. . Lord Evan- 
dale, in not much better plight, brought up the rear, still 
exhorting the soldiers to keep together and fear nothing. 
Several of the men were wounded, and .one or two drop- 
ped from their horses as they surmounted the hill. 

Mause’s zeal broke forth once more at this spectacle 
while she stood on the heath with her head uncovered, 
and her grey hairs streaming in the wind, no bad repre- 
4 * VOL. II. 


42 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


sentation of a superannuated bacchante, or Thessalian 
witch in the agonies of incantation. She soon discover' 
ed Claverhouse at the head of the fugitive party, and ex- 
claimed with bitter irony, “ Tarry, tarry, ye wha were 
aye sae blithe to be at the meetings of the saints, and wad 
ride every muir in Scotland to find a conventicle ! Wilt 
thou not tarry, now thou hast found ane 9 Wilt thou 
not stay for one word mair 9 Wilt thou na bide the after- 
noon preaching 9 — Wae betide ye !” she said, suddenly 
changing her tone, ‘‘ and cut the houghs of the creature 
vvhase fleetness ye trust in ! — Sheugh — Sheugh! — awa 
wi’ ye that hae spilled sae muckle blude, and now wad 
save your ain — awa wi’ ye for a railing Rabshakeh, a 
cursing Shemei, a blood-thirsty Doeg ! — the sword’s 
drawn now that winna be lang o’ o’ertaking ye, ride as 
fast as ye will.” 

Claverhouse, it may be easily supposed, was too busy 
to attend to her reproaches, but hastened over the hill, 
anxious to get the remnant of his men out of gun-shot, in 
hopes of again collecting the fugitives round his standard. 
But as the rear of his followers rode over the ridge, a 
shot struck Lord Evandale’s horse, which instantly sunk 
down dead beneath him. Two of the whig horsemen, 
who were the foremost in the pursuit, hastened up with 
the purpose of killing him, for hitherto there had been no 
quarter given. Morton, on the other hand, rushed for- 
ward to save his life, if possible, in order at once to in- 
dulge his natural generosity, and to requite the obligation 
which Lord Evandale had conferred on him that morn- 
ing, and under which circumstances had made him wince 
so acutely. Just as he had assisted Evandale, who was 
much wounded, to extricate himself from his dying horse, 
and to gain his feet, the two horsemen came up, and one 
of them exclaiming, “ Have at the red-coated tyrant !” 
made a blow at the young nobleman, which Morton parri- 
ed with difliculty, exclaiming to the rider, who was no 
other than Burley himself, “ Give quarter to this gentle- 
man, for my sake — for the sake,” he added, observing 


OLD MORTALITY. 


43 


that Burley did not immediately recognize him, “ of 
Henry Morton, who so lately sheltered you.” 

“ Henry Morton replied Burley, wiping his bloody 
brow with his bloodier hand, “ did I not say that the son 
.of Silas Morton would come forth out of the land of 
bondage, nor be long an indweller in the tents of Ham ^ — 
Thou art a brand snatched out of the burning—But for 
this booted apostle of prelacy, he shall die the death ! — 
We must smite them hip and thigh, even from the rising 
to the going down of the sun. It is our commission to 
slay them like Amalek, and utterly destroy all they have, 
and spare neither man nor woman, infant nor suckling ; 
therefore, hinder me not,” he continued, endeavouring 
again to cut down Lord Evandale, “ for this work must 
not be wrought negligently.” 

“ You must not, and you shall not, slay him, more es- 
pecially while incapable of defence,” said Morton, plant- 
ing himself before Lord Evandale so as to intercept any 
blow that should be aimed at him ; “ I owed my life to 
him this morning — my life, which was endangered solely 
by my having sheltered you 5 and to shed his blood when 
he can offer no effectual resistance, were not only a cru- 
elty abhorrent to God and man, but detestable ingratitude 
both to him and to me.” 

Burley paused. — “ Thou art yet,” he said, “ in the 
court of the Gentiles, and I compassionate thy human 
blindness and frailty. Strong meat is not fit for babes, 
nor the mighty and grinding dispensation under which I 
draw my sword, for those whose hearts are yet dwelling 
in huts of clay, whose footsteps are tangled in the mesh 
of mortal sympathies, and who clothe themselves in the 
righteousness that is as filthy rags. But to gain a soul to 
the truth is better than to send one to Tophet ; therefore 
] give quarter to this youth, providing the grant is con- 
firmed by the general council of God’s army, whom he 
hath this day blessed with so signal a deliverance. — Thou 
art unarmed — Abide my return here. I must yet pursue 
these sinners, the Amalekites, and destroy them till they 


44 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


be utterly consumed from the face of the land, even from 
Havilah unto Shur.” 

So saying, he set spurs to his horse, and continued to 
pursue the chase. 

“ Cuddie,” said Morton, “ for God’s sake catch a horse' 
as quickly as you can. I will not trust Lord Evandale’s 
life with these obdurate men. — You are wounded, my 
lord.— Are you able to continue your retreat ?” he con- 
tinued, addressing himself to his prisoner, who, half-stun-. 
ned by the fall, was but beginning to recover himself. 

“ I think so,” replied Lord Evandale. “ But is it pos- 
sible 9 — Do 1 owe my life to Mr. Morton 9” 

“ My interference w’ould have been the same from 
common humanity,” replied Morton ; “ to your lordship 
it was a sacred debt of gratitude.” 

Cuddie at this instant returned with a horse. 

“ God-sake munt — munt, and ride like a fleeing hawk, 
my lord,” said the good-natured fellow, “ for ne’er be in 
me, if they arena killing every ane o’ the wounded and 
prisoners!” 

Lord Evandale mounted the horse, while Cuddie offi- 
ciously held the stirrup. 

“ Stand off, good fellow, thy courtesy may cost thy 
life. — Mr. Morton,” he continued, addressing Henry, 

“ this makes us more than even — rely on it I will never 
forget your generosity — Farewell.”. 

He turned his horse, and rode swiftly away in the di- 
rection which seemed least exposed to pursuit. 

Lord Evandale had just rode off*, when several of the 
insurgents, who were in the front of the pursuit, came up, 
denouncing vengeance on Henry Morton and Cuddie for 
having aided the escape of a Philistine, as they called the 
young nobleman. 

“ What wad ye hae had us to do 9” cried Cuddie. 

“ Had we aught to stop a man wi’, that had twa pistols 
and a sword 9 Sudna ye hae come faster up yoursells, in- 
stead of flyting at buz 9” 

This excuse would hardly have passed current ; hu* 
Kettledrummle, who now awoke from his trance of terror 


OliD MORTALITY. 


45 


and was Jcnown to, and reverenced by, most of the wan- 
derers, together with Manse, who possessed their appro- 
priate language, as well as the preacher himself, proved 
active and effectual intercessors. 

“ Touch them not, harm them not,” exclaimed Kettle- 
drummle, in his very best double-bass tones ; “ this is the 
son of the famous Silas Morton, by whom the Lord 
wrought great things in this land at the breaking forth of 
the reformation from prelacy, when there was a plentiful 
pouring forth of the Word and a renewing of the Cove- 
nant ; a hero and champion of those blessed days, when 
there was power, and efficacy, and convincing, and con- 
verting of sinners, and heart-exercises, and fellowship of 
saints, and a plentiful flowing forth of the spices of the 
garden of Eden.” 

“ And this is my son Cuddie,” exclaimed Mause in her 
turn, “ the son of his father, Judden Headrigg, wha was 
a douce honest man, and of me, Mause Middlemas, an 
unworthy professor and follower of the pure gospel, and 
ane o’ your ain folk. Is it not written, ‘ Cut ye not off 
the tribe of the families of the Kohathites from among 
the Levites V Niimbers, fourth and aughteenth — 0,sirs ! 
dinna be standing here prattling wi’ honest folk, when ye 
suld be following forth your victory with which Providence 
has blessed ye.” 

This party having passed on, they were immediately 
beset by another, to whom it was necessary to give the 
same explanation. Kettledrurnmle, whose fear was much 
dissipated since the firing had ceased, again took upon him 
to be intercessor, and, grown bold, as he felt his good 
word necessary for the protection of his late fellow-cap- 
tives, he laid claim to no small share of the merit of the 
victory, appealing to Morton and Cuddie, whether the tide 
of battle had not turned while he prayed on the Mount 
of Jehovah-Nissi,like Moses, that Israel might prevail over 
Amalek ; but granting them, at the same time, the credit 
of holding up his hands when they waxed heavy, as those 
of the prophet were supported by Aaron and Hur. It 
seems probable that Kettledrurnmle allotted this part iw 


46 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


the success to his companions in adversity, lest they should 
be tempted to disclose his carnal self-seeking and falling 
away, in regarding too closely his own personal safety. 
These strong testimonies in favour of the liberated cap- 
tives quickly flew abroad with many exaggerations among 
the victorious army. The reports on the subject were 
various ; but it was universally agreed, that young Morton 
of Milnwood, the son of the stout soldier of the Covenant, 
Silas Morton, together with the precious Gabriel Kettle- 
drummle, and a singular devout Christian woman, whom 
many thought as good as himself at extracting a doctrine 
or an use, whether of terror or consolation, had arrived 
to support the good old cause, with a reinforcement of a 
hundred well-armed men from the Middle Ward.^ 


CHAPTER V. 

When pulpit, drum ecclesiastic^ 

Was beat with fist instead of a stick. 

Huditfras. 


In the mean time, the insurgent cavalry returned from 
the pursuit, jaded and worn out with their unwonted ef- 
forts, and the infantry assembled on the ground which 
they had won, fatigued with toil and hunger. Their suc- 
cess, however, was a cordial to every bosom, and seemed 
even to serve in the stead of food and refreshment. It 
was, indeed, much more brilliant than they durst have 
ventured to anticipate ; for, with no great loss on their 
part, they had totally routed a regiment of picked men. 
commanded by the first officer in Scotland, and one whose 
very name had long been a terror to them. Their suc- 
cess seemed even to have upon their spirits the effect ol 
a sudden and violent surprise, so much had their taking 
up arms been a measure of desperation rather than ol 


OLD MORTALITY. 


47 


hope. Their meeting was also casual, and they had has- 
tily arranged themselves under such commanders as were 
remarkable for zeal and courage, without much respect 
to any other qualities. It followed, from this state of dis- 
organization, that the whole army appeared at once to re- 
solve itself into a general committee for considering what 
steps were to be taken in consequence of their success, 
and no opinion could be started so wild that it had not 
ome favourers and advocates. Some proposed they should 
march to Glasgow, some to Hamilton, some to Edinburgh, 
some to London. Some were for sending a deputation of 
their number to London to convert Charles II. to a 
sense of the error of his ways; and others, less char- 
itable, proposed either to call a new successor to the 
crown, or to declare Scotland a free republic. A free 
parliament of the nation, and a free assembly of the Kirk, 
were the objects of the more sensible and moderate of 
the party. In the meanwhile, a clamour arose among the 
soldiers for bread and other necessaries, and while all 
complained of hardship and hunger, none took the neces- 
sary measures to procure supplies. In short, the camp 
of the Covenanters, even in the very moment of suc- 
cess, seemed about to dissolve like a rope of sand, from 
want of the original principles of combination and union. 

Burley, who had now returned from the pursuit, found 
his followers in this distracted state. With the ready 
talent of one accustomed to encounter exigencies, he pro- 
posed, that one hundred of the freshest men should be 
drawn out for duty — that a small number of those who 
had hitherto acted as leaders,*should constitute a commit- 
tee of direction until officers should be regularly chosen 
— and that, to crown the victory, Gabriel Kettledrummle 
should be called upon to improve the providential success 
which they had obtained by a word in season addressed 
to the army. He reckoned very much, and not without 
reason, on this last expedient, as a means of engaging 
the attention of the bulk of the insurgents, while he him- 
self, and two or three of their leaders, held a private coun- 


48 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


ci]-of-war, undisturbed by the discordant opinions or 
senseless clamour of the general body. 

Kettledrummle more than answered the expectations 
of Burley. Two mortal hours did he preach at a breath- 
ing ; and certainly no lungs, or doctrine, excepting his 
own, could have kept up, for so long a time, the attention 
of men in such precarious circumstances. But he pos- 
sessed in perfection a sort of rude and familiar eloquence 
peculiar to the preachers of that period, which, though it 
would have been fastidiously rejected by an audience 
which possessed any portion of taste, was a cake of the 
right leaven for the palates of those whom he now ad- 
dressed. His text was from the forty-ninth chapter of 
Isaiah, “ Even the captives of the mighty shall be taken 
awaj, and the prey of the terrible shall be delivered j for 
I will contend with him that contend with thee, and I 
will save thy children. 

“ And 1 will feed them that oppress thee with their 
own flesh, and they shall be drunken with their own blood 
as witli sweet wine land all flesh shall know that I the 
Lord am thy Saviour, and thy Redeemer, the Mighty 
One of Jacob.” 

The discourse which he pronounced upon this subject 
was divided into fifteen heads, each of which was gar- 
nished with seven uses of application, two of consolation, 
two of terror, two declaring the causes of backsliding and 
of wrath, and one announcing the promised and expected 
deliverance. The first part of his text he applied to his 
own deliverance and that of his companions, and took oc- 
casion to speak a few words in praise of young Milnwood, 
of whom, as of a champion of the Covenant, he augurec 
great things. The second part he applied to the punish- 
ments which were about to fall upon the persecuting gov- 
ernment. At times he w^as familiar and colloquial ; now 
he was loud, energetic, and boisterous ; — some parts ol 
his discourse might be called sublime, and others sunk 
below burlesque. Occasionally he vindicated with great 
animation the right of every freeman to worship God ac- 
cording to his own conscience ; and presently he charged 


OLD MORTALITY. 


49 


the guilt and misery of the people on the awful negligence 
of their rulers, who had not only failed to establish pres- 
bytery as the national religion, but had tolerated sectaries 
of various descriptions. Papists, Prelatists, Erastians as- 
suming the name of Presbyterians, Independents, ^ocin- 
ians, and Quakers ; all of whom, Kettledrumrnle pro- 
posed, by one sweeping act, to expel from the land, and 
thus re-edify in its integrity the beauty of the sanctuary. 
He next handled very pithily the doctrine of defensive 
arms, and of resistance to Charles IT., observing, that, in- 
stead of a nursing father to the Kirk, that monarch had 
been a nursing father to none but his own bastards. He 
went at some length through the life and conversation of 
that joyous prince, few parts of which, it must be owned, 
were qualified to stand the rough handling of so uncourtly 
an orator, who conferred on him the hard names of Je- 
roboam, Omri, Ahab, Shallum, Pekah, and every other 
evil monarch recorded in the Chronicles, and concluded 
with a round application of the Scripture, “ Tophet is 
ordained of old ; yea, for the King it is provided : he 
hath made it deep and large ; the pile thereof is fire and 
much wood : the breath of the Lord, like a stream of 
brimstone, doth kindle it.” 

Kettledrumle had no sooner ended his sermon, and 
descended from the huge rock which had served him for a 
pulpit, than his post was occupied by a pastor of a very 
different description. The reverend Gabriel was advanced 
in years, somewhat corpulent, with a loud voice, a square 
face, and a set of stupid and unanimated features, in which 
the body seemed more to predominate over the spirit than 
was seemly in a sound divine. The youth who succeeded 
him in exhorting this extraordinary convocation, Ephraim 
Macbriar by name, was hardly twenty years old ; yet his 
thin features already indicated, that a constitution, naturally 
hectic, was worn out by vigils, by fasts, by the rigour ot 
imprisonment, and the fatigues incident to a fugitive life. 
Ifoung as he was, he had been twice imprisoned for several 
months, and suffered many severities, which gave him 

6 VOL. II. 


60 


TAIiES OF MY LANDLORD. 


great influence with those of his own sect. He threw his 
faded eyes over the multitude and over the scene of battle, 
and a light of triumph arose in his glance, his pale yet 
striking features were coloured with a transient and hectic 
blush of joy. He folded his hands, raised his face to 
heaven, and seemed lost in mental prayer and thanksgiv- 
ing ere he addressed the people. When he spoke, his 
faint and broken voice seemed at first inadequate to ex- 
press his conceptions. But the deep silence of the assem- 
bly, the eagerness with which the ear gathered every word, 
as the famished Israelites collected the heavenly manna, 
had a corresponding effect upon the preacher himself. 
His words became more distinct, his manner more earnest 
and energetic ; it seemed as if religious zeal was triumph- 
ing over bodily weakness and infirmity. His natural elo- 
quence was not altogether untainted with the coarseness 
of his sect; and yet, by the influence of a good natural 
taste, it was freed from the grosser and more ludicrous 
errors of his contemporaries ; and the language of Scrip- 
ture, which, in their mouths, was sometimes degraded by 
misapplication, gave, in Macbriar’s exhortation, a rich 
and solemn effect, like that which is produced by the 
beams of the sun streaming through the storied represen- 
tation of saints and martyrs on the Gothic window of some 
ancient cathedral. 

He painted the desolation of the church, during the 
late period of her distresses, in the most affecting colours. 
He described her, like Hagar watching the waning life of 
her infant amid the fountainless desert ; like Judah, under 
her palm-tree, mourning for the devastation of her tem- 
ple ; like Rachel, weeping for her children and refusing 
comfort. But he chiefly rose into rough sublimity when 
addressing the men yet reeking from battle. He called on 
them to remember the great things which God had done 
for them, and to persevere in the career which their vie* 
tory had opened. 

“ Your garments are dyed — but not with the juice of 
the wine-press ; your swords are filled with blood,” he 
ejcclaimed, “ but not with the blood of goats or lambs ; 


OJ.U MORTALITY. 


51 


the dust of the desert on which ye stand is made fat with 
gore, but not with the blood of bullocks, for the Lord 
hath a sacrifice in Bozrah, and a great slaughter in the 
the land of Idumea. These were not the firstlings of the 
flock, the small cattle of burnt-offerings, whose bodies lie 
like dung on the ploughed field of the husbandman ; this 
is not the savour of myrrh, of frankincense, or of 
sweet herbs, that is steaming in your nostrils ; but these 
bloody trunks are the carcasses of those who held the bow 
and the lance, who were cruel and would show no mercy, 
whose voice roared like the sea, who rode upon horses, 
every man in array as if to battle — they are the carcasses 
even of the mighty men of war that came against Jacob 
in the day of his deliverance, and the smoke is that of the 
devouring fires that have consumed them. And those 
wild hills that surround you are not a sanctuary planked 
with cedar and plated with silver ; nor are ye minister- 
ing priests at the altar, with censers and with torches ; but 
ye hold in your hands the sword, and the bow, and the 
weapons of death. And yet verily, I say unto you, that 
not when the ancient Temple was in its first glory was 
there offered sacrifice more acceptable than that which 
you have this day presented, giving to the slaughter the 
tyrant and the oppressor, with the rocks for your altars, 
and the sky for your vaulted sanctuary, and your own 
good swords for the instruments of sacrifice. Leave not, 
therefore, the plough in the furrow — turn not back from 
the path in which you have entered like the famous wor- 
thies of old, whom God raised up for the glorifying of his 
name and the deliverance of his afflicted people — halt not 
in the race you are running, lest the latter end should be 
worse than the beginning. Wherefore, set up a standard 
in the land ; blow a trumpet upon the mountains ; let not 
the shepherd tarry by his sheepfold, or the seedsman con- 
tinue in the ploughed field ; but make the watch strong, 
sharpen the arrows, burnish the shields, name ye the cap^ 
tains of thousands, and captains of hundreds, of fifties, 
and of tens ; call the footmen like the rushing of winds, 
and cause the horsemen to come up like the sound of 


52 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


many waters, for the passages of the destroyers are stop- 
ped, their rods are burned, and the face of their men of 
battle hath been turned to flight. Heaven has been with 
you, and has broken the bow of the mighty ; then let 
every man’s heart be as the heart of the valiant Maccabeus, 
every man’s hand as the hand of the mighty Sampson, 
every man’s sword as that of Gideon, which turned not 
back from the slaughter ; for the banner of Reformation 
is spread abroad on the mountains in its first loveliness, 
and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it. 

“ Well is he this day that shall barter his house for a 
helmet, and sell his garment for a sword, and cast in his 
lot with the children of the Covenant, even to the fulfill- 
ing of the promise ; and woe, woe unto him who, for car- 
nal ends and self-seeking, shall withhold himself from the 
great work, for the curse shall abide with him, even the 
bitter curse of Meroz, because he came not to the help of 
the Lord against the mighty. Up, then, and be doing ; 
the blood of martyrs, reeking upon scaffolds, is crying lor 
vengeance ; the bones of saints, which he whitening in 
the highways, are pleading for retribution ; the groans of 
innocent captives from desolate isles of the sea, and from 
the dungeons of the tyrants’ high places, cry for deliver- 
ance ; the prayers of persecuted Christians, sheltering 
themselves in dens and deserts from the sword of their 
persecutors, famished with hunger, starving with cold, 
lacking fire, food, shelter, and clothing, because they serve 
God rather than man — all are with you, pleading, watch- 
ing, knocking, storming the gates of heaven in your behalf. 
Heaven itself shall fight for you, as the stars in their cour- 
ses fought against Sisera. Then whoso will deserve im- 
mortal fame in this world, and eternal happiness in that 
which is to come, let them enter into God’s service, and 
take arles at the hand of his servant, — a blessing, namely, 
upon him and his household, and his children, to the 
ninth generation, even the blessing of the proa ise, for- 
ever and ever ! Amen.” 

The eloquence of the preacher was rewarded by the 
deep hum of stern approbation which resounded through 


OLD MORTALITY. 


53 


the armed assemblage at the conclusion of an exhortation 
so well suited to that which they had done, and that which 
remained for them to do. The wounded forgot their pain, 
the faint and hungry their fatigues and privations, as they 
listened to doctrines which elevated them alike above the 
wants and calamities of the world, and identified their 
cause with that of the Deity. Many crowded around the 
preacher, as he descended from the eminence on which 
he stood, and, clasping him with hands on which the gore 
was notyet hardened, pledged their sacred vow that they 
would play the part of Heaven’s true soldiers. Exhaust- 
ed by his own enthusiasm, and by the animated fervour 
which he had exerted in his discourse, the preacher could 
only reply, in broken accents, — “ God bless you, my 
brethren — it is his cause. — Stand strongly up and play 
the men — the worst that can befall us is but a brief and 
bloody passage to heaven.” 

Balfour, and the other leaders, had not lost the time 
which was employed in these spiritual exercises. Watch- 
fires were lighted, sentinels were posted, and arrange- 
ments were made to refresh the army with such provisions 
as had been hastily collected from the nearest farm-houses 
and villages. The present necessity thus provided for, 
they turned their thoughts to the future. They had de- 
spatched parties to spread the news of their victory, and 
to obtain, either by force or favour, supplies of what they 
stood most in need. In this they had succeeded beyond 
their hopes, having at one village seized a small magazine 
of provisions, forage, and ammunition, which had been 
provided for the royal forces. This success not only gave 
them relief at the time, but such hopes for the future, 
that whereas formerly some of their number had tfegun to 
slacken in their zeal, they now unanimously resolved to 
abide together in arms, and commit themselves and theii 
cause to the event of war. 

And whatever may be thought of the extravagance or 
narrow-minded bigotry of many of their tenets, it is im- 
possible to deny the praise of devoted courage to a few 

.'j* VOL. II. 


54 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


hundred peasants, who, without leaders, without money, 
without magazines, without any fixed plan of action, and 
almost without arms, borne out only by their innate zeal, 
and a detestation of the oppression of their rulers, ven- 
tured to declare open war against an established govern- 
ment, supported by a regular army, and the whole force 
of three kingdoms. 


CHAPTER VI. 

Why, then, say an old man can do somewhat. 

Henry IV. Part II. 

We must now return to the Tower of Tillietudlem, 
which the march of the Life-Guards, on the morning ol 
this eventful day, had left to silence and anxiety. The 
assurances of Lord Evandale had not succeeded in quell- 
ing the apprehensions of Edith. She knew him gener- 
ous, and faithful to his word ; but it seemed too plain that 
he suspected the object of her intercession to be a suc- 
cessful rival ; and was it not expecting from him an effort 
above human nature to suppose that he was to watch over 
Morton’s safety, and rescue him from all the dangers to 
which his state of imprisonment, and the suspicions which 
he had incurred, must repeatedly expose him 9 She 
therefore resigned herself to the most heart-rending ap- 
prehensions,, without admitting, and indeed almost without 
listening to, the multifarious grounds of consolation which 
Jenny Dennison brought forward, one after another, like 
a skilful general, who charges with the several divisions of 
bis troops in regular succession. 

First, Jenny was morally positive that young Miln^ 
wood would come to no harm — then, if he did, there 
was consolation in the reflection, that Lord Evandale was 
the better and more appropriate match of the two — then, 
there was every chance of a battle, in which the said 


OID MORTALITY. 


55 


Lord Evandale might be killed, and there f^ad be nae 
mair fash about that job — then, if the whigs gat the bet- 
ter, Milnwood and Cuddie might come to the castle, and 
carry off the beloved of their hearts by the strong hand, 

“ Fori forgot to tell ye, madam,” continued the dam- 
sel, putting her handkerchief to her eyes, “ that puir 
Cuddie’s in the hands of the Philistines as weel as young 
Milnwood, and he was brought here a prisoner this morn- 
ing ; and I was fain to- speak Tam Halliday fair, and 
fleech him, to let me near the puir creature ; but Cuddie 
wasna sae thankfu’ as he needed till hae been neither,” 
she added, and at the same time changed her tone, and 
briskly withdrew the handkerchief from her face ; “ so 
I will ne’er waste my een wi’ greeting about the matter. 
There wad be aye enow o’ young men left, if they were 
to hang the tae half o’ them.” 

The other inhabitants of the Castle were also in a state 
of dissatisfaction and anxiety. Lady Margaret thought 
that Colonel Grahame, in commanding an execution at 
the door of her house, and refusing to grant a reprieve at 
her request, had fallen short of the deference due to her 
rank, and had even encroached on her seignorial rights. 

“ The Colonel,” she said, “ ought to have remem- 
bered, brother, that the barony of Tillietudlern has the 
baronial privilege of pit and gallows, and therefore, if the 
lad was to be executed on my estate, (which i consider 
as an unhandsome thing, seeing it is in the possession of 
females, to whom such tragedies cannot be acceptable) 
he ought, at ’common law, to have been delivered up to 
my baillie, and justified at his sight.” 

‘‘ Martial law, sister,” answered Major Bellenden, 
“ supersedes every other. But I must own 1 think Col- 
onel Grahame rather deficient in attention to you ; and I 
am not over and above pre-eminently flattered by his 
granting to young Evandale (I suppose because he is a 
lord and has interest with the privy-council) a request 
which he refused to so old a servant of the King as I am. 
But so long as the poor young fellow’s life is saved, I can 


56 


TALES 01' MY LANDLORD. 


comfort myself with the fag-end of a ditty as old as my- 
self.” And therewithal, he hummed a stanza ; 

‘ And what though winter will pinch severe 
Through locks of grey and a cloak that's old ? 

Yet keep up thy heart, bold cavalier, 

For a cup of sack shall fence the cold.' 

“ I must be your guest here to-day, sister. I wish to 
hear the issue of this gathering on Loudon-hill, though- 1 
cannot conceive their standing a body of horse appointed 
like our guests this morning. — Woes me, the time has 
been that I would have liked ill to have sat in biggit wa’s 
waiting for the news of a skirmish to be fought within ten 
miles of me ! But, as the old song goes, 

* For time will rust the brightest blade, 

And years will break the strongest bow ! 

Was ever wight so starkly made, 

But time and years would overthrow V 

“We are well pleased you will stay, brother,” said 
Lady Margaret ; “ I will take my old privilege to look 
after my household, whom this collation has thrown into 
some disorder, although it is uncivil to leave you alone.” 

“ O, I hate ceremony as I hate a stumbling horse,” 
replied the Major. “ Besides, your person would be 
with me, and your mind with the cold meat and rever- 
sionary pasties. — Where is Edith .^” 

“ Gone to her room a little evil-disposed, I am inform- 
ed, and laid down in her bed for a gliff,” said her grand- 
mother ; “ as soon as she wakes, she shall take - some 
drops.” 

“ Pooh ! pooh ! she’s only sick of the soldiers,” an- 
swered Major Bellenden. “ She’s not accustomed to see 
one acquaintance led out to be shot, and another march- 
ing off to actual service with some chance of not finding 
his way back again. She would soon be used to it, 
the civil war were to break out again.” 

“ God forbid, brother !” said Lady Margaret. 


OLD MORTALITY. 


67 


“ Ay, neaven forbid, as you say — and, in the mean 
ume. I’ll lake a hit at trick-track with Harrison.” 

“ He has ridden out, sir,” said Gudyill, “ to try if he 
can hear any tidings of the battle.” 

“ D — n the battle,” said the Major ; it puts this 
family as much out of order as if there had never been 
such a thing in the country before — and yet there was 
such a place as Kilsythe, John.” 

“ Ay, and as Tippermuir, your honour,” replied Gud- 
yill, “ where 1 was his honour, my late master’s rear- 
rank man.” 

“ And Alford, John,” pursued the Major, “ where I 
commanded the horse ; and Innerlochy, where I was the 
great Marquis’s aid-de-camp 5 and Auld Earn, and Brig 
o’ Dee.” 

“ And Philiphaugh, your honour,” said John. 

“ Umph !” replied the Major ; “ the less, John, we 
say about that matter, the better.” 

However, being once fairly embarked on the subject of 
Montrose’s campaigns,the Major and John Gudyill carri- 
ed on the war so stoutly, as for a considerable time to 
keep at bay the formidable enemy called Time, with 
whom retired veterans, during the quiet close of a bust- 
ling life, usually wage an unceasing hostility. 

It has been frequently remarked, that the tidings of 
important events fly with a celerity almost beyond the 
power of credibility, and that reports, correct in the gen- 
eral point, though inaccurate in details, precede the cer- 
tain intelligence, as if carried by the birds of the air. 
Such rumours anticipate the reality, not unlike to the 
“ shadows of coming events” which occupy the imagina- 
tion of the Highland Seer. Harrison, in his ride, en- 
countered some such report concerning the event of the 
battle, and turned his horse back t» Tillietudlem in great 
dismay. He made it his first business to seek out the 
Major, and interrupted him in the midst of a prolix ac- 
count of the siege and storm of Dundee, with the ejacu 
lation, “ Heaven send. Major, that we do not see a siege 
of Tillietudlem before we are many days older !” 


58 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


“ How is that, Harrison — what the devil do you 
mean exclaimed the astonished veteran. 

“ Troth, sir, there is strong and increasing belief that 
Claver’se is clean broken, some say killed ; that the sol- 
diers are all dispersed, and that the rebels are hastening 
this way, threatening death and devastation to a’ that will 
not take the Covenant.” 

“ I will never believe that,” said the Major, starting on 
his feet — “ I will never believe that the Life-Guards 
would retreat before rebels ; — and yet why need I say 
that,” he continued, checking himself, “ when 1 have 
seen such sights myself.^ — Send out Pike, and one or 
two of the servants, for intelligence, and let all the men 
in the Castle and in the village that can be trusted take 
up arms. This old tower may hold them in play a bit, if it 
were but victualled and garrisoned, and it commands the 
pass between the high and low countries. — It’s lucky I 
chanced to be here. — Go, muster men, Harrison. — You, 
Gudyill, look what provisions you have or can get brought 
in, and be ready, if the news be confirmed, to knock down 
as many bullocks as you have salt for. — The well never 
goes dry. — There are some old-fashioned guns on the 
battlements ; if we had but ammunition, we should do 
well enough.” 

“ The soldiers left some casks of ammunition at the 
Grange this morning to bide their return,” said Harrison. 

“ Hasten, then,” said the Major, “ and bring it into 
the Castle, with every pike, sword, pistol, or gun, that is 
within our reach ; don’t leave so much as a bodkin — 
lucky that I was here ! — 1 will speak to my sister instant- 
ly.” 

Lady Margaret Bellenden was astounded at intelli- 
gence so unexpected and so alarming. It had seemed to 
her that the imposing force which had that morning left 
her walls, was sufficient to have routed all the disaffected 
in Scotland, if collected in a body; and now her first reflec- 
tion was upon the inadequacy of their own means of re- 
sistance, to an army strong enough to have defeated 
Claverhouse and such select troops. 


OLD MORTALITY. 


59 


“ Woes me ! woes me !” said she ; “ what will all 
that we can do avail us, brother — What will resistance 
do but bring sure destruction on the house, and on the 
bairn Edith ! for, God knows, I thinkna on my ain auld 
life.” 

“ Come, sister,” said the Major, “ you must not be 
cast down ; the place is strong, the rebels ignorant and 
ill-provided : my brother’s house shall not be made a den 
of thieves and rebels while old Miles Bellenden is in it. 
IMy hand is weaker than it was, but I thank my old grey 
hairs that I have some knowledge of war yet. Here 
comes Pike with intelligence. — What news. Pike 9 
Another Philiphaugh job, eh 

“ Ay, ay,” said Pike, composedly ; “ a total scatter- 
ing. — I thought this morning little gude would come of 
their new-fangled gate of slinging their carabines.” 

“ Whom did you see — Who gave you the news 
asked the Major. 

“ O, mair than half-a-dozen dragoon fellows that are 
a’ on the spur whilk to get first to Hamilton. They’ll 
win the race, I warrant them, win the battle wha like.” 

“ Continue your preparations, Harrison,” said the alert 
veteran ; “ get your ammunition in, and the cattle killed. 
Send down to the borough-town for what meal you can 
gather. We must not lose an instant. — Had not Edith 
and you, sister, better return to Charnwood, while we have 
the means of sending you there ?” 

“ No, brother,” said Lady Margaret, looking very 
pale, but speaking with the greatest composure ; “ since 
the auld house is to be held out, I will take my chance in 
it. I have fled twice from it in my days, and I have aye 
found it desolate of its bravest and its bonniest when I 
returned ; sae that I will e’en abide now, and end my 
pilgrimage in it.” 

“ It may, on the whole, be the safest course both for 
Edith and you,” said the Major ; “ for the whigs will 
rise all the way between this and Glasgow, and make 
your travelling there, or your dwelling at Charnwood, 
very unsafe.” 


60 


TALES OF MY LANDLORIJ. 


“ So be it, then,” said Lady Margaret ; and, dear 
brother, as the nearest blood-relation of my deceased 
husband, 1 deliver to you, by this symbol,” — (here she 
gave into his hand the venerable gold-headed staff of the 
deceased Earl of Torwood) — “ the keeping and govern- 
ment and seneschalship of my Tower of Tillietudlem, and 
the appurtenances thereof, with full power to kill, slay, 
and damage those who shall assail the same, as freely as 
T might do -myself. And I trust you will so defend it, as 
becomes a house in which his most sacred majesty has not 
disdained” 

“ Pshaw ! sister,” interrupted the Major, “ we have 
no time to speak about the King and his breakfast just 
now !” 

And, hastily leaving the room, he hurried, with all the 
alertness of a young man of twenty-five, to examine the 
state of his garrison, and superintend the measures which 
were necessary for defending the place. 

The tower of Tillietudlem, having very thick walls, 
and very narrow windows, having also a very strong 
court-yard wall, with flanking turrets on the only acces- 
sible side, and rising on the other from the very verge of 
a precipice, was fully capable of defence against any- 
thing but a train of heavy artillery. 

Famine or escalade was what the garrison had chiefly 
to fear. For artillery, the top of the Tower was mount- 
ed with some antiquated wall-pieces, and small cannons, 
which bore the old-fashioned names of culverins, sakers, 
demi-sakers, falcons, and falconets. These, the Major, 
with the assistance of John Gudyill, caused to be scaled 
and loaded, and pointed them so as to command the 
road over the brow of the opposite hill by which the 
rebels must advance, causing, at the same time, two or 
three trees to be cut down, which would have impeded 
the effect of the artillery when it should be necessary to 
use it. With the trunks of these trees, and other mate- 
rials, he directed barricades to be constructed upon the 
winding avenue which rose to the Tower along the high 
road, taking care that each should command the other 


OLD MOKTALITY. 


61 


The large gale of the court-yard he barricadoed yet 
more strongly, leaving only a wicket open for the conven- 
ience of passage. What he had most reason to appre- 
hend, was the slenderness of his garrison ; for all the 
efforts of the steward were unable to get more than nine 
men' under arms, himself and Gudyill included, so much 
more popular was the cause of the insurgents than that of 
the government. Major Bellenden, and his trusty ser- 
vant Pike, made the garrison eleven in number, of whom 
one-half were old men. The round dozen might indeed 
have been made up, would Lady Margaret have consent- 
ed that Goose Gibbie should again take up arms. But she 
recoiled from the proposal, when moved by Gudyill, with 
such abhorrent recollection of the former achievements 
of that luckless cavalier, that she declared she would 
rather the Castle were lost than that he were to be enrolled 
in the defence of it. W^ith eleven men, however, himself 
included. Major Bellenden determined to hold out the 
place to the uttermost. 

The arrangements for defence were not made without 
the degree of fracas incidental to such occasions. Wo- 
men shrieked, cattle bellowed, dogs howled, men ran to 
and fro, cursing and swearing without intermission, the 
lumbering of the old guns backwards and forwards shook 
the battlements, the court resounded with the hasty gal- 
lop of messengers who went and returned upon errands 
of importance, and the din of warlike preparation was 
mingled with the sound of female laments. 

Such a Babel of discord might have awakened the 
slumbers of the very dead, and, therefore, was not long 
ere it dispelled the abstracted reveries of Edith Bellen- 
den. She sent out Jenny to bring her the cause of the 
tumult which shook the Castle to its very basis ; but Jen- 
ny, once engaged in the bustling tide, found so much to 
ask and to heap; that she forgot the slate of anxious un- 
certainty in which she had left her young mistress. 
Having.no pigeon to dismiss in pursuit of information 
when her raven messenger had failed to return with it 
G vor.. li 


62 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


Edith was compelled to venture in quest of it out of the 
ark of her own chamber into the deluge of confusion 
which overflowed the rest of the castle. Six voices, 
speaking at once, informed her, in yeply to her first in- 
quiry, that Claver’se and all his men were killed, and 
that ten thousand whigs were marching to besiege the 
Castle, headed by John Balfour of Burley, young Miln- 
wood, and Cuddie Headrigg. This strange association 
of persons seemed to infer the falsehood of the whole 
story, and yet the general bustle in the Castle intimated 
that danger was certainly apprehended. 

“ Where is Lady Margaret V’ was Edith’s second 
question. 

“ In her oratory,” was the reply : a cell adjoining to 
the chapel in which the good old lady was wont to 
spend the greater part of the days destined by the rules 
of the Episcopal Church to devotional observances, as 
also the anniversaries of those on which she had lost her 
husband and her children, and, finally, those hours, in 
which a deeper and more solemn address to Heaven was 
called for, by national or domestic calamity. 

“ Where, then,” said Edith, much alarmed, “ is 
Major Bellenden *?” 

“ On the battlements of the Tower, madam, pointing 
the cannon,” was the reply. 

To the battlements, therefore, she made her way, 
impeded by a thousand obstacles, and found the old gen- 
tleman in the midst of his natural military element, 
commanding, rebuking, encouraging, instructing, and ex- 
ercising all the numerous duties of a good governor. 

“ In the name of God, what is the matter, uncle ?” 
exclaimed Edith. 

“ The matter, my love .?” answered the Major coolly, 
as, with spectacles on his nose, he examined the position 
of a gun — “ the matter 9 Why, — raise her breech a 
thought more, John Gudyill — the matter ? Why, Clav- 
er’se is routed, my dear, and the whigs are coming down 
upon us in force, that’s all the matter.” 


OLD MORTALITY. 


6i3 


“ Gracious power !” said Edith, whose eye at that 
ffistant caught a glance of the road which ran up the 
river, “ and yonder they cornel” 

“ Yonder 9 where 9” said the veteran, and, his eyes 
taking the same direction, he beheld a large body of 
horsemen coming down the path. “ Stand to your guns, 
my lads!” was the first exclamation ; “ we’ll make them 
pay toll as they pass the heugh. — But stay, stay, these 
are certainly the Life-Guards.” 

“ O no, uncle, no,” replied Edith ; “ see how disor- 
derly they ride, and how ill they keep their ranks ; these 
cannot be the fine soldiers who left us this morning.” 

“ Ah, my dear girl !” answered the Major, “ you do 
not know the difference between men before a battle and 
after a defeat ; but the Life-Guards it is, for 1 see the 
red and blue and the King’s colours. I am glad they 
have brought them off, however.” 

His opinion was confirmed as the troopers approached 
nearer, and finally halted on the road beneath the Tower ; 
while their commanding officer, leaving them to breathe 
and refresh their horses, hastily rode up the hill. 

“ It is Claverhouse, sure enough,” said the Major ; 
“ I am glad he has escaped, but he has lost his famous 
black horse. Let Lady Margaret know, John Gudyill ; 
order some refreshments ; get oats for the soldiers’ hor- 
ses ; and let us to the hall, Edith, to'meet him. I sur- 
mise we shall hear but indifferent news ” 


64 


TALES or MY LANDLORD. 


CHAPTER VIL 

* With careless gesture, mind unmoved, 

On rade he north the plain. 

His seem in thrang of fiercest strife, 

When wiimer aye tlie same. 

Hardijknvte. 

Colonel Grahame of Claverhouse met the family, 
assembled in the hall of the Tower, with the same seren- 
ity and the some courtesy which had graced his manners 
in the morning. He had even had the composure to 
rectify in part the derangement of his dress, to wash the 
signs of battle from his face and hands, and did not ap- 
pear more disordered in his exterior than if returned from 
a morning ride. 

“ I am grieved, Colonel Grahame,” said the reverend 
old lady, the tears trickling down her face, “ deeply 
grieved.” 

“ And I am grieved, my dear Lady Margaret,” re- 
j)lied Claverhouse, “ that this misfortune may render 
your remaining at Tillietudlem dangerous for you, espe- 
cially considering your recent hospitality to the King’s 
troops, and your well-known loyalty. And I came here 
chiefly to request Miss Bellenden and you to accept my 
escort (if you will not scorn that of a poor runaway) to 
Glasgow, from whence I will see you safely sent either to 
Edinburgh or to Dunbarton Castle, as you shall think 
best.” 

“ I am much obliged to you. Colonel Grahame,” re 
plied Lady Margaret, “ but my brother, Major Bellen 
den, has taken on him the responsibility of holding out 
this house against the rebels ; and, please God, they shall 
never drive Margaret Bellenden from her ain hearth-stane 
while there’s a brave man that says he can defend it.” 


OLD MOllTAilTY. 


66 


And will Major Bellenden undertake this 9” said 
Claverhouse hastily, a joyful light glancing from his dark 
eye as he turned it on the veteran, — “ Yet why should 1 
question it 9 it is of a piece with the rest of his life. — 
But have you the means. Major 9” 

“ All, but men and provisions, with which we are ill- 
supplied,” answered the Major. 

“ As for men,” said Glaverhouse, “ I will leave you 
a dozen or twenty fellows who will make good a breach 
against the devil. It will be of the utmost service, if you 
can defend the place but a week, and by that time you 
must surely be relieved.” 

“ I will make it good for that space, Colonel,” replied 
the Major, “ with twenty-five good men and store of 
ammunition, if we should gnaw the soles of our shoes for 
hunger ; but I trust we shall get in provisions from the 
country.” 

“ And, Colonel Grahame, if I might presume a re- 
quest,” said Lady Margaret, I would entreat that Ser- 
geant Francis Stuart might command the auxiliaries 
whom you are so good as to add to the garrison of our 
people ; it may serve to legitimate his promotion, and 1 
have a prejudice in favour of his noble birth.” 

“ The Sergeant’s wars are ended, madani,” said Gra- 
hame, in an unaltered tone, “ and he now needs no 
promotion that an earthly master can give.” 

“ Pardon me,” said Major Bellenden, taking Claver- 
house by the arm, and turning him away from the ladies, 
“ but I am anxious for my friends ; 1 fear you have other 
and more important loss. I observe another officer car- 
ries your nephew’s standard.” 

“ You are right. Major Bellenden,” answered Claver- 
house firmly ; “ my nephew is no more. He has died 
in his duty as became him.” 

“ Great God !” exclaimed the Major, “ how unhap- 
py ! — the handsome, gallant, high-spirited youth !” 

“ He was, indeed, all you say,” answered Claverhouse ; 

‘ poor Richard was to me as an eldest son, the apple of 

6* VOL. II. 


56 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


my eye, and my destined heir ; but he died in his duty, 
and I — I — Major Bellenden” — (he wrung the Major’s 
hand hard as he spoke) — “ T live to avenge him.” 

“ Colonel Grahame,” said the affectionate veteran, 
his eyes filling with tears, ‘‘ I am glad to see you bear 
this misfortune with such fortitude.” 

“ I am not a selfish man,” replied Claverhouse, 
“ though the world will tell you otherwise ; I am not 
selfish either in my hopes or fears, my joys or sorrows. 
I have not been severe for myself, or grasping for my- 
self, or ambitious for myself. Tbe service of my master 
and the good of the country are what I have tried to aim 
at. 1 may, perhaps, have driven severity into cruelty, 
but I acted for the best ; and now I will not yield to my 
own feelings a deeper sympathy than 1 have given to 
those of others.” 

“ I am astonished at your fortitude under all the un- 
pleasant circumstances of this affair,” pursued the Major. 

“ Yes,” replied Claverhouse, “ my enemies in the 
council will lay this misfortune to my charge — I despise 
their accusations. They will calumniate me to my sov- 
ereign — I can repel their charge. The public enemy will 
exult in my flight — 1 shall find a time to show them that 
they exult too early. This youth that has fallen stood be- 
twixt a grasping kinsman and my inheritance, for you know 
that my marriage-bed is barren ; yet, peace be with him ! 
the country can better spare him than your friend Lord 
Evandale, who, after behaving very gallantly, has, I fear, 
also fallen.” 

“ What a fatal day !” ejaculated the Major. “ I 
heard a report of this, but it was again contradicted ; it 
was added, that the poor young nobleman’s impetuosity 
had occasioned the loss of this unhappy field.” 

“ Not so. Major,” said Grahame ; “ let the living offi- 
cers bear the blame, if there be any, and let the laurels 
flourish untarnished on the grave of the fallen. I do not, 
however, speak of Lord Evandale’s death as certain ; 
but killed, or prisoner, I fear he must be. Yet he was 
extricated from the tumult the last time we spoke togeth- 


OLD MORTALITY. 


67 


er. We were then on the point of leaving the field with 
a rear-guard of scarce twenty men ; the rest of the 
regiment were almost dispersed.” 

“ They have rallied again soon,” said the Major, look- 
ing from the window on the dragoons, who were feeding 
their horses and refreshing themselves beside the brook. 

“ Yes,” answered Claverhouse, “ my blackguards had 
little temptation either to desert, or to straggle farther 
than they were driven by their first panic. There is 
small friendship and scant courtesy between them and 
the boors of this country ; every village they pass is 
likely to rise on them, and so the scoundrels are driven 
back to their colours by a wholesome terror of spits, 
pike-staves, hay-forks, and broom-sticks. — But now let 
us talk about your plans and wants, and the means ol 
corresponding with you. To tell you the truth, I doubt 
being able to make a long stand at Glasgow, even when 
I have joined my Lord Ross ; for this transient and ac- 
cidental success of the fanatics will raise the devil through 
all the western counties.” 

They then discussed Major Bellenden’s means of de- 
fence, and settled a plan of correspondence, in case a 
general insurrection took place, as was to be expected. 
Claverhouse renewed his offer to escort the ladies to a 
place of safety ; but, all things considered. Major Bellen- 
den thought they would be in equal safety at Tillietudlem. 

The Colonel then took ^ polite leave of Lady Margaret 
and Miss Bellenden, assuring them, that, though he was 
reluctantly obliged to leave them for the present in dan- 
gerous circumstances, yet his earliest means should be 
turned to the redemption of his character as a good 
knight and true, and that they might rely on speedily 
hearing from or seeing him. 

Full of doubt and apprehension. Lady Margaret was 
little able to reply to a speech so much in unison with 
her usual expressions and feelings, but contented herself 
with bidding Claverhouse farewell, and thanking him for 
the succours which he had promised to leave them. Edith 
longed to inquire the fate of Henry Morton, but could 


68 


TALES or MY LANDLORD. 


find no pretext for doing so, and could only hope that it 
had made a subject of some part of the long private com- 
munication which her uncle had held with Claverhouse. 
On this subject, however, she was disappointed ; for the 
old cavalier was so deeply immersed in the duties of his 
own office, that he had scarce said a single word to 
Claverhouse, excepting upon military matters, and most 
probably would have been equally forgetful had the fate 
of his owm son, instead of his friend’s, lain in the balance. 

Claverhouse now descended the bank on which the 
Castle is founded, in order to put his troops again in mo- 
tion, and Major Bellenden accompanied him to receive 
the detachment who were to be left in the Tower. 

“ I shall leave Inglis with you,” said Claverhouse, 
“ for, as I am situated, 1 cannot spare an officer of rank ; 
it is all we can do, by our joint efforts, to keep the men 
together. But should any of our missing officers make 
their appearance,! authorize you to detain them ; for my 
fellows can with difficulty be subjected to any other au- 
thority.” 

His troops being now drawn up, he picked out sixteen 
men by name, and committed them to the command of 
Corporal Inglis, whom he promoted to the rank of ser- 
geant on the spot. 

‘‘ And hark ye, gentlemen,” was his concluding har- 
angue, “ I leave you to defend the house of a lady, and 
under the command of her brother. Major Bellenden, a 
faithful servant to the King. You are to behave bravely, 
soberly, regularly, and obediently, and each of you shall 
be handsomely rewarded on my return to relieve the gar- 
rison. In case of mutiny, cowardice, neglect of duty, 
or the slightest excess in the family, the provost-marshal 
and cord — you know I keep my word for good and evil.” 

He touched his hat as he bade them farewell, and 
shook hands cordially with Major Bellenden. 

“ Adieu,” he said, “ my stout-hearted old friend ! 
Good luck be with you, and better times to us both.” 

The horsemen whom ho commanded had been once 
more reduced to tolerable order by the exertions ol 


OLD MORTALITY. 


69 


Major Allan, and, though shorn of their splendour, and 
with their gilding all besmirched, made a much more 
regular and military appearance on leaving, for the second 
time, the Tower of Tillietudlem, than when they return- 
ed to it after their rout. 

Major Bellendeh, now left to his own resources, sem 
out several videttes, both to obtain supplies of provisions, 
and especially of meal, and to get knowledge of the 
motions of the enemy. All the news he could collect on 
the second subject tended to prove, that the insurgents 
meant to remain on the field of battle for that night. 
But they, also, had abroad their detachments and ad- 
vanced guards to collect supplies, and great was the doubt 
and distress of those who received contrary orders in the 
name of the King and in that of the Kirk ; the one com- 
manding them to send provisions to victual the Castle of 
Tillietudlem, and the other enjoining them to forward 
supplies to the camp of the godly professors of true re- 
ligion, now in arms for the cause of covenanted reforma- 
tion, presently pitched at I)rumclog, nigh to Loudon-hill. 
Each summons closed with a denunciation of fire and 
sword if it was neglected; for neither party could confide 
so far in the loyalty or zeal of those whom they address- 
ed, as to hope they would part with their property upon 
other terms. So that the poor people knew not what 
hand to turn themselves to ; and, to say truth, there were 
some who turned themselves to more than one. 

“ Thir kittle times will drive the wisest o’ us daft,” 
said Niel Blane, the prudent host of the HowfF ; “ but 
I’se aye keep a calm sough. — Jenny, what meal is in the 
girnel T’ 

“ Four bows o’ aitmeal, twa bows o’ bear, and twa 
bows o’ pease,” was Jenny’s reply. 

“ Aweel, hinny,” continued Niel Blane, sighing deep- 
\y, “ let Bauldie drive the pease and bear meal to the 
camp at Drumclog — he’s a whig, and was the auld gude- 
wife’s pleughman — the rnashlum bannocks will suit their 
muirland starnachs week He maun say it’s the last unce 
of meal in the house, or, if he scruples to tell a lie, (as 


70 


TA1.ES OF MY LANDLORD. 


It’s no likely he will when it’s for the gude o’ the house.) 
he may wait till Duncan Glen the auld drucken trooper, 
drives up the aitmeal to Tillietiidlem, wd’ my dutifu’ ser- 
vice to my Leddy and the Major, and 1 haena as muckle 
left as will mak my parritch ; and, if Duncan manage 
right, ]’ll gie him a tass o’ whisky shall mak the blue 
low come out at his* mouth.” 

“ And what are we to eat oursells then, father,” asked 
Jenny, ‘‘ when we hae sent awa the haill meal in the ark 
and the girnel?” 

“ We maun gar wheat-flour serve us for a blink,” said 
Niel, in a tone of resignation ; “ it’s no that ill food, 
though far frae being sae hearty or kindly to a Scotch- 
man’s stamach as the curney aitmeal is ; the Englishers 
live amaist upon’t ; but, to be sure, the pock-puddings 
ken nae better.” 

While the prudent and peaceful endeavoured, like Niel 
Blane, to make fair weather with both parties, those who 
had more public (or party) spirit, began to take arms' on 
all sides. The royalists in the country were not nume- 
rous, but were respectable from their fortune and influ- 
ence, being chiefly landed proprietors of ancient descent, 
who, with their brothers, cousins, and dependants, to 
the ninth generation, as well as their domestic ser- 
vants, formed a sort of militia, capable of defending their 
own peel-houses against detached bodies of the insur- 
gents, of resisting their demand of supplies, and inter- 
cepting those which were sent to the presbyterian camp 
by others. The news that the Tower of Tillietudlem 
was to be defended against the insurgents, afforded great 
courage and support to these feudal volunteers, who con- 
sidered it as a strong-hold to which they might retreat, in 
case it should become impossible for them to maintain 
the desultory war they were now about to wage. 

On the other hand, the towns, the villages, the farm- 
houses, the properties of small heritors, sent forth nume- 
rous recruits to the presbyterian interest. These men 
had been the principal suferers during the oppression of 
Ae time. Their minds were fretted, soured, and driven 
to desperation, by the various exactions and cruelties to 


01.D MOKTALITY. 


71 


which they had been subjected ; and, although by no means 
united among themselves, either concerning the purpose 
of this formidable insurrection, or the means by which 
that purpose was to be obtained, most of them considered 
it as a door opened by Providence to obtain the liberty 
of conscience of which they had been long deprived, and 
to shake themselves free of a tyranny, directed both against 
Dody and soul. Numbers of these men, therefore, took 
up arms ; and, in the phrase of their time and party, pre- 
pared to cast in their lot with the victors of Loudon-hill 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Armnias. I do not like the man : He is a heatben. 

And speaks the language of Canaan truly. 

Tribulation. You must await his calling, and the coming 
Of the good spirit. You did ill to upbraid him. 

The Alchemist. 


We return to Henry Morton, whom we left on the 
field of battle. He was eating, by one of the watch-fires, 
his portion of the provisions which had been distributed 
to the army, and musing deeply on the path which he 
was next to pursue, when Burley suddenly came up to 
him, accompanied by the young minister, whose exhorta- 
tion after the victory had produced such a powerful effect. 

“ Henry Morton,” said Balfour, abruptly, “ the coun- 
cil of the army of the Covenant, confiding that the son 
of Silas Morton can never prove a lukewarm Laodicean, 
or an indifferent Gallio, in this great day, have nominated 
you to be a captain of their host, with the right of a vote 
in their council, and all authority fitting for an officer who 
is to command Christian men.” 

“ Mr. Balfour,” replied Morton, without hesitation, 
‘ I feel this mark of confidence, and it is not surprising 
that a natural sense of the injuries of my country, not to 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


72 

mention those I have sustained in my own person, should 
make me sufficiently willing to draw my sword for liberty 
and freedom of conscience. But I will own to you, that 
I must be better satisfied concerning the principles on 
which you bottom your cause, ere I can agree to take a 
command amongst you.” 

“ And can you doubt of our principles,” answered 
Burley, “ since we have stated them to be the reforma- 
tion both of church and state, the rebuilding of the de- 
cayed sanctuary, the gathering of the dispersed saints, 
and the destruction of the man of sin ?” 

“ I will own frankly, Mr. Balfour,” replied Morton, 
“ much of this sort of language, which, I observe, is so 
powerful with others, is entirely lost on me. It is proper 
you should be aware of this before we commune further 
together.” (The young clergyman here groaned deep- 
ly.) I distress you, sir,” said Morton ; “ but, per- 
haps, it is because you will not hear me out. I revere 
the Scriptures as deeply as you or any Christian can do. 

I look into them with humble hope of extracting a rule 
of conduct and a law of salvation. But 1 expect to find 
this by an examination of their general tenor, and of the 
spirit which they uniformly breathe, and not by wresting 
particular passages from their context, or by the applica- 
tion of Scriptural phrases to circumstances and events, 
with which they have often very slender relation.” 

The young divine seemed shocked and thunderstruck 
with this declaration, and was about to remonstrate. 

“ Hush, Ephraim !” said Burley, “ remember he is 
but as a babe in swaddling clothes. — Listen to me, Mor- 
ton. I will speak to thee in the worldly language of that 
carnal reason, which is, for the present, thy blind and 
imperfect guide. What is the object for which thou art 
content to draw thy sword Is it not that the church and 
state should be reformed by the free voice of a free par- 
liament, with 'Such laws as shall hereafter prevent the 
executive government from spilling the blood, torturing 
jmd imprisoning the persons, exhausting the estates, and 


OLD MORTALITY. 


73 


trampling upon the consciences of men at their own 
wicked pleasure 

“ Most certainly,” said Morton ; “ such I esteem legiti- 
mate causes of warfare, and for such I will fight while I 
can wield a sword.” 

Nay, but,” said Macbriar, “ ye handle this matter 
loo tenderly ; nor will my conscience permit me to fard 
or daub over the causes of divine wrath ” 

“ Peace, Ephraim Macbriar!” again interrupted 
Burley. 

“ I will not peace,” said the young man. Is it not 
the cause of my Master who hath sent me ? Is it not a 
profane and Erastian destroying of his authority, usur- 
pation of his power, denial of his name, to place e; .ler 
king or parliament in his place as the master and gov- 
ernor of his household, the adulterous husband of his 
spouse 9” 

“ You speak well,” said Burley, dragging him aside, 
but not wisely ; your own ears have heard this night in 
council how this scattered remnant are broken and di- 
vided, and would ye now make a veil of separation 
between them ? Would ye build a wall with unslacked 
mortar ? — if a fox go up, it will breach it.” 

“ I know,” said the young clergyman in reply, “ that 
thou art faithful, honest, and zealous, eveiTi unto slaying ; 
but, believe me, this worldly craft, thi.s temporizing with 
sin and with infirmity is in itself a^ falling away, and I 
fear me Heaven will not honour us to do much more for 
His glory, when we seek to carnal cunning and to a fleshly 
arm. The sanctified end must be wrought by sanctified 
means.” 

“ I tell thee,” answered Balfour, “ thy zeal is too 
rigid in this matter } we cannot yet do without the help 
of the Laodiceans and the Erastians ; we must endure 
for a space the indulged in the midst of the council — the 
sons of Zeruiah are yet too strong for us.” 

“ I tell thee I like it not,” said Macbriar ; “ God can 
work deliverance by a few as well as by a multitude 
7 VOL. II. 


74 


TALES OF MY LANDLOKD. 


The host of the faithful that was broken upon Pentland 
hills, paid but the fitting penalty of acknowledging the 
carnal interest of that tyrant and oppressor, Charles 
Stuart.” 

“ Well, then,” said Balfour, “ thou knowest the healing 
resolution that the council have adopted, — to make a 
comprehending declaration, that may suit the tender con- 
sciences of all who groan under the yoke of our present 
oppressors. Return to the council if thou wilt, and get 
them to recall it, and send forth one upon narrower 
grounds. But abide not here to hinder my gaining over 
this youth whom my soul travails for ; his name alone 
will call forth hundreds to our banners.” 

“ Do as thou wilt, then,” said Macbriar ; ‘‘ but I will 
not assist to mislead the youth, nor bring him into jeo- 
pardy of life, unless upon such grounds as will ensure 
ins eternal reward.” 

The more artful Balfour then dismissed the impatient 
preacher, and returned to his proselyte. 

That we may be enabled to dispense with detailing- at 
length the arguments by which he urged Morton to join 
the insurgents, we shall take this opportunity to give a 
brief sketch of the person by whom they were used, and 
the motives which he had for interesting himself so deeply 
in the conversion of young Morton to his cause. 

.John Balfour of Kinlock, or Burley, for he is desig- 
nated both ways in the histories and proclamations of that 
melancholy period, was a gentleman of some fortune, 
and of good family in the county of Fife, and had been 
a soldier from, his youth upward. In the younger part 
of his life he had been wild and licentious, but had early 
laid aside open profligacy, and embraced the strictest 
tenets of Calvinism. Unfortunately, habits of excess 
and intemperance were more easily rooted out of his 
dark, saturnine, and enterprizing spirit, than the vices pi 
revenge and ambition, which continued, notwithstanding 
his religions professions, to exercise no small sway over 
his mind. Daring in design, precipitate and violent in 
execution, and going to the very extremity of the most 


01,1) MOllTAlilTY. 


75 


rigid recusancy, it was his ambition to place himself at 
the head of the presbyterian interest. 

To attain this eminence among the whigs, he had 
been active in attending their conventicles, and more than 
once had commanded them when they appeared in arms, 
and beaten off the forces sent to disperse them. At 
length, the gratification of his own fierce enthusiasm, 
joined, as some say, with motives of private revenge, 
placed him at the head of that party who assassinated the 
Primate of Scotland, as the author of the sufferings of the 
presbyterians. The violent measures adopted by gov- 
ernment to revenge this deed, not on the perpetrators 
only, but on the whole professors of the religion to which 
they belonged, together with long previous sufferings, 
without any prospect of deliverance, except by force of 
arms, occasioned the insurrection, which, as we have 
already seenj commenced by the defeat of Claverhouse 
in the bloody skirmish of Loudon-hill. 

But Burley, notwithstanding the share he had in the 
victory, was far from finding himself at the summit which 
his ambition aimed at. This was partly owing to the va- 
rious opinions entertained among the insurgents concern- 
ing the murder of Archbishop Sharpe. The more vio- 
lent among them did,indeed,approve of this act as a deed 
of justice, executed upon a persecutor of God’s church 
through the immediate inspiration of the Deity; but the 
greater part of the presbyterians disowned the deed as a 
crime highly culpable, although they admitted, that the 
Archbishop’s punishment had by no means exceeded his 
deserts. The insurgents differed in another main point, 
which has been already touched upon. The more warm 
and extravagant fanatics condemned as guilty of a pusil- 
lanimous abandonment of the rights of the church, those 
preachers and congregations who were contented, in any 
manner, to exercise their religion through the permission 
of the ruling government. This, they said, was absolute 
Erastianism, or subjection of the church of God to the 
regulations of an earthly government, and therefore but 
one degree better than prelacy or popery. — Again, the 


76 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


more moderate party were content to allow the king’s 
title to the throne, and, in secular affairs, to acknowledge 
his authority, so long as it was exercised with due regard 
to the liberties of the subject, and in conformity to the 
laws of the realm. But the tenets of the wilder sect, 
called from their leader Richard Cameron, by the name 
of Cameronians, went the length of disowning the reign- 
ing monarch, and every one of his successors who should 
not acknowledge the Solemn League and Covenant. 
The seeds of disunion were, therefore, thickly sown in 
this ill-fated party ; and Balfour, however enthusiastic, 
and however much attached to the most violent of those 
tenets which we have noticed, saw nothing but ruin to 
the general cause, if they were insisted on during this 
crisis, when unity was of so much consequence. Hence 
he disapproved, as we have seen, of the honest, down- 
right, and ardent zeal of Macbriar, and was extremely 
desirous to receive the assistance of the moderate party 
of presbyterians in the immediate overthrow of the gov- 
ernment, with the hope of being hereafter able to dictate 
to them what should be substituted in its place. 

He was on this account particularly anxious to secure 
the accession of Henry Morton to the cause of the insur- 
gents. The memory of his father was generally esteem- 
ed among the presbyterians ; and as few persons of any 
decent quality had joined the insurgents, this young man’s 
family and prospects were such as almost insured his 
being chosen a leader. Through Morton’s means, as 
being the son of his ancient comrade, Burley conceived 
he might exercise some influence over the more liberal 
part of the army, and ultimately, perhaps, ingratiate 
himself so far with them, as to be chosen commander-in- 
chief, which was the mark at which his ambition aimed. 
He had, therefore, without waiting till any other person 
took up the subject, exalted to the council the talents 
and disposition of Morton, and easily obtained his eleva- 
tion to the painful rank of a leader in this disunited and 
undisciplined army. 

The arguments by which Balfour pressed Morton ta 


OLD MORTALITY. 


77 


accept of this dangerous promotion, as soon as he had 
gotten rid of his less wary and uncompromising com- 
panior, Macbriar, were sufficiently artful and urgent. 
He did not affect either to deny or to disguise that the 
sentiments which he himself entertained concerning 
church government, went as far as those of the preacher 
who had just left them ; but he argued, that when the 
affairs of the nation were at such a desperate crisis, 
minute difference of opinion should not prevent those 
who, in general, wished well to their oppressed country, 
from drawing their swords in its behalf. Many of the 
subjects of division, as, for example, that concerning the 
Indulgence itself, arose, he observed, out of circumstan- 
ces which would cease to exist, provided their attempt 
to free the country should be successful, seeing that the 
presbytery, being in that case triumphant, would need 
to make no such compromise with the government, and, 
consequently, with the abolition of the Indulgence, all 
discussion of its legality would be at once ended. He 
insisted much and strongly upon the necessity of taking 
advantage of this favourable crisis, upon the certainty of 
their being joined by the force of the whole western 
shires, and upon the gross guilt which those would incur, 
who, seeing the distress of the country, and the increas- 
ing tyranny with which it was governed, should from 
fear or indifference, withhold their active aid from the 
good cause. 

Morton wanted not these arguments to induce him to 
join in any insurrection, which might appear to have 
a feasible prospect of freedom to the country. He 
doubted, indeed, greatly, whether the present attempt 
was likely to be supported by the strength sufficient to 
ensure success, or by the wisdom and liberality of spirit 
necessary to make a good use of the advantages that 
might be gained. Upon the whole, however, considering 
the wrongs he had personally endured, and those 
which he had seen daily inflicted on his fellow-subjects , 
meditating also upon the precarious and dangerous situa- 
7 * VOL. II. 


78 


TALKS OF MY LANDLORD. 


tion in which he already stood with relation to the govern- 
ment, he conceived himself, in every point of view, called 
upon to join the body of presbyterians already in arms 

But, while he expressed to Burley his acquiescence 
in the vote which had named him a leader among the 
insurgents, and a member of their council of war, it was 
not without a qualification. 

“ I am willing,” he said, “ to contribute every thing 
within my limited power to effect the emancipation oi 
my country. But do not mistake me. I disapprove, 
in the utmost degree, of the action in which this rising 
seems to have originated, and no arguments should in- 
duce me to join it, if it is to be carried on by such 
measures as that with which it has commenced.” 

Burley’s blood rushed to his face, giving a ruddy and 
dark glow to his swarthy brow. 

“ You mean,” he said, in a voice which he designed 
should not betray any emotion — “ You mean the death 
of James Sharpe ?” 

“ Frankly,” answered Morton, “ such is my meaning.” 

“ You imagine, then,” said Burley, “ that the Almigh- 
ty, in times of difficulty, does not raise up instruments 
to deliver his church from her oppressors ^ You are of 
opinion that the justice of an execution consists, not in 
the extent of the sufferer’s crime, or in his having merited 
punishment, or in the wholesome and salutary effect 
which that example is likely to produce upon other evil- 
doers, but hold that it rests solely in the robe of the 
judge, the height of the bench, and the voice of the 
doomster 9 Is not just punishment justly inflicted, whether 
on the scaffold or the moor 9 And where constituted 
judges, from cowardice, or from having cast in their lot 
with transgressors, suffer them not only to pass at liberty 
through the land, but to sit in the high places, and dye 
their garments in the blood of the saints, is it not wtII 
done in any brave spirits who shall draw their pri" ate 
swords in the public cause 9” 

“ I have no wish to judge this individual action,” re- 
plied Morton, “ further than is necessary to make you 


OLD MORTALITY. 


79 


fully aware of my principles. I therefore rej^^t, that 
the case you have supposed does not satisfy i^ judg- 
ment. That the Almighty, in his mysterious providence, 
may bring a bloody man to an end deservedly bloody, 
does not vindicate those who, without authority of any 
kind, take upon themselves to be the instruments of 
execution, and presume to call them the executors of 
divine vengeance.” 

“And were we not so 9” said Burley, in a tone of 
fierce enthusiasm. “ Were not we — was not every one 
who owned the interest of the Covenanted Church oi 
Scotland, hound by that covenant to cut off the Judas 
who had sold the cause of God for fifty thousand merks 
a-year ? Had we met him by the way as he came 
down from London, and there smitten him with the edge 
of tiie sword, we had done but the duty of men faithful 
to our cause, and to our oaths recorded in heaven. Was 
not the execution itself a proof of our warrant f Did not 
the Lord deliver him into our hands, when we looked 
out but for one of liis inferior tools of persecution 9 Did 
we not pray to be resolved how we should act, and was 
it not borne in on our hearts as if it had been written on 
them with the point of a diamond, “ Ye shall surely take 
him and slay him 9” — Was not the tragedy full half an 
hour in acting ere the sacrifice was completed, and that 
in an open heath, and within the patrols of their garri- 
sons — and yet who interrupted the great work — What 
dog so much as bayed us during the pursuit, the taking, 
the slaying, and the dispersing 9 Then, who will say — 
who dare say, that a mightier arm than ours was not 
herein revealed 9” 

“You deceive yourself, Mr. Balfour,” said Morton j 
“ such circumstances of facility of execution and escape 
have often attended the commission of the most enor- 
mous crimes. — But it is not mine to judge you. I have 
not forgotten that the way was opened to the former lib- 
eration of Scotland by an act of violence which no 
man can justify, — the slaughter of Gumming by the hand 
of Robert Bruce ; and, therefore, condemning this action, 


80 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


as I do and must, I am not unwilling to svippose that 
you may have motives vindicating it in your own eyes, 
though not in mine, or in those of sober reason. 1 only 
now mention it, because I desire you to understand, that 
I join a cause supported by men engaged in open war, 
which it is proposed to carry on according to the rules 
of civilized nations, without, in any respect, approving of 
the act of violence which gave immediate rise to it.” 

Balfour bit his lip, and with difficulty suppressed a vio- 
lent answer. He perceived with disappointment, that, 
upon points of principle, his young brother-in-arms pos- 
sessed a clearness of judgment, and a firmness of mind, 
which afforded but little hope of his being able to exert 
that degree of influence over him which he had expected 
to possess. After a moment’s pause, however, he said, 
with coolness, “ My conduct is open to men and angels. 
The deed was not done in a corner ; I am here in arms 
to avow it, and care not where, or by whom, I am called 
on to do so ; whether in the council, the field of battle, 
the place of execution, or the day of the last great trial. 
I will not now discuss it further with one who is yet on 
the other side of the veil. But if you will cast in your 
lot with us as a brother, come with me to the council, 
who are still sitting, to arrange the future march of the 
army, and the means of improving our victory.” 

Morton arose and followed him in silence ; not greatly 
delighted with his associate, and better satisfied with the 
general justice of the cause which he had espoused, than 
either with the measures or motives of many of those 
who were embarked in it. 


OLD MORTALlTir. 


81 


CHAPTER IX. 


And look how many Grecian tents do stand 
Hollow upon this plain — so many hollow factions. 

2'roilus and Cressida 


In a hollow of the hill, about a quarter of a mile from 
the field of battle, was a shepherd’s hut ; a miserable 
cottage, which, as the only inclosed spot within a mode- 
rate distance, the leaders of the presbyterian army had 
chosen for their council-house. Towards this spot Burley 
guided Morton, who was surprised, as he approached it, 
at the multifarious confusion of sounds which issued from 
its precincts. The calm and anxious gravity which it 
might be supposed would have presided in councils held 
on such important subjects, and at a period so critical, 
seemed to have given place to discord wild, and loud 
uproar, which fell on the ear of their new ally as an evil 
augury of their future measures. As they approached 
the door, they found it open indeed, but choked up with 
the bodies and heads of countrymen, who, though no 
members of the council, felt no scruple in intruding 
themselves upon deliberations in which they were so 
deeply interested. By expostulation, by threats, and 
even by some degree of violence, Burley, the sternness 
of whose character maintained a sort of superiority over 
these disorderly forces, compelled the intruders to retire, 
and introducing Morton into the cottage, secured the 
door behind them against impertinent curiosity. At a 
less agitating moment, the young man might have been 
entertained with the singular scene of which he now 
found himself an auditor and a spectator. 

The precincts of the gloomy and ruinous hut were 
enlightened partly by some furze which blazed on the 
hearth, the smoke whereof, having no legal vent, eddied 


B2 


TALES Of MY LANDLORD. 


around , ^ nd formed over the heads of the assembled 
council^cloudy canopy, as opake as their metaphysical 
theology, through which, like stars through mist, were 
dimly seen to twinkle a few blinking candles, or rather 
rushes dipped in tallow, the property of the poor owner 
of the cottage, which were stuck to the walls by patches 
of wet clay. This broken and dusky light showed many 
a countenance elated with spiritual pride, or rendered 
dark by fierce enthusiasm ; and some whose anxious, 
wandering, and uncertain looks showed they felt them- 
selves rashly embarked in a cause which they had nei- 
ther courage nor conduct to bring to a good issue, yet 
knew not how to abandon for very shame. They were, 
indeed, a doubtful and disunited body. The most ac- 
tive of their number were those concerned with Burley 
in the death of the Primate, four or five of whom had 
found their way to Loudon-hill, together with other men 
of the same relentless and uncompromising zeal, who 
had, in various ways, given desperate and unpardonable 
offence to the government. 

With them were mingled their preachers, men w^ho 
had spurned at the indulgence offered by government, 
and preferred assembling their flocks in the wilderness 
to worshipping in temples built by human hands, if 
their doing the latter should be construed to admit any 
right on the part of their rulers to interfere with the su- 
premacy of the Kirk. The other class of counsellors 
were such gentlemen of small fortune and substantial 
farmers as a sense of intolerable oppression had induced 
to take arms and join the insurgents. These also had 
their clergymen with them, and such divines having many 
of them taken advantage of the indulgence, were prepared 
to resist the measures of their more violent brethren, who 
proposed a^declaration in which they should give testimony 
against the warrants and instructions for indulgence as 
sinful and unlawful acts. This delicate question had been 
passed over in silence in the first draught of the mani- 
festos which they intended to publish, of the reasons ol 
their gathering in arms ; but it had been stirred anew 


OLD MORTALITY. 


83 


during Balfour’s absence, and to his great vexation, he 
now found that both parties had opened upoAt in full 
cry, Macbriar, Kettledrurnmle, and other teachers of 
the wanderers, being at the very spring- tide of polemical 
discussion with Peter Poundtext the indulged pastor of 
Mill) wood’s parish, who it seems had e’en girded him- 
self with a broad-sword, but, ere he was called upon to 
fight for the good cause of presbytery in the field, was 
manfully defending his own dogmata in the council. It 
was the din of this conflict, maintained chiefly between 
Poundtext and Kettledrurnmle, together with the clamour 
of their adherents, which had saluted Morton’s ears upon 
approaching the cottage. Indeed, as both the divines 
were men well gifted with words and lungs, and each 
fierce, ardent and intolerant in defence of his own doc- 
trine, prompt in the recollection of texts wherewith they 
battered each other without mercy, and deeply impressed 
with the importance of the subject of discussion, the 
noise of the debate betwixt them fell little short of that 
which might have attended an actual bodily conflict. 

Burley, scandalized at the disunion implied in this vir- 
ulent strife of tongues, interposed between the disputants, 
and, by some general remarks on the unseasonableness 
of discord, a soothing address to the vanity of each party, 
and the exertion of the authority which his services in 
that day’s victory entitled him to assume, at length 
succeeded in prevailing upon them to adjourn farther 
discussion of the controversy. But although Kettle- 
drummle and Poundtext were thus for the time silenced, 
they continued to eye each other like two dogs, who, 
having been separated by the authority of tlieir masters 
while fighting, have retreated, each beneath the chair of 
his owner, still watching each other’s motions, and indi- 
cating by occasional growls, by the erected bristles of 
the back and ears, and by the red glance of the eye, that 
their discord is unappeased, and that they only wait the 
first opportunity afforded by any general movement or 
commotion in the company, to fly once more at each 
other’s throats. 


84 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


Balf om* took advantage of the momentary pause to 
present^ the council Mr. Henry Morton of Milnwood, 
as one touched with a sense of the evils of the times, 
and willing to peril goods and life in the precious cause 
for which his father, the renowned Silas Morton, had 
given in his time a soul-stirring testimony. Morton was 
instantly received with the right hand of fellowship by 
his ancient pastor Poundtext, and by those among the 
insurgents who supported the more moderate princi- 
ples. The others muttered something about Erastian- 
ism, and reminded each other in whispers, that Silas 
Morton, once a stout and worthy servant of the Cove- 
nant, had been a backslider in the day when the resolu- 
tioners had led the way in owning the authority of 
Charles Stuart, thereby making a gap whereat the pres- 
ent tyrant was afterwards brought in, to the oppression 
both of Kirk and country. They added, however, that, 
on this great day of calling, they would not refuse so- 
ciety with any who should put hand to the plough ; and 
so Morton was installed in his office of leader and 
counsellor, if not with the full approbation of his col- 
leagues, at least without any formal or avowed dissent. 
They proceeded, on Burley’s motion, to divide among 
themselves the command of the men who had assembled, 
and whose numbers were daily increasing. In this par- 
tition, the insurgents of Poundtext’s parish and congre- 
gation were naturally placed under the command of 
Morton ; an arrangement mutually agreeable to both par- 
ties, as he was recommended to their confidence, as well 
by his personal qualities as his having been born among 
them. 

When this task was accomplished, it became neces- 
sary to determine what use was to be made of their vic- 
tory. Morton’s heart throbbed high when he heard the 
Tower of Tillietudlem named as one of the most impor- 
tant positions to be seized upon. It commanded, as we 
have often noticed, the pass between the more wild and 
the more fertile country, and must furnish, it was plau- 
sibly urged, a strong hold and place of rendezvous to 


OID MORTALITY. 


86 


ihe cavaliers and malignants of the district, supposing 
the insurgents were to march onward and leave^t unin- 
vested. This measure was particularly urged as neces- 
sary by Poundtext and those of his immediate followers, 
whose habitations and families might be exposed to great 
severities, if this strong place were permitted to remain 
in possession of the royalists. 

“ I opine,” said Poundtext, — for, like the other divines 
f the period, he had no hesitation in offering his advice 
upon military matters of which he was profoundly igno- 
rant, — “ I opine, that we should take in and raze that 
strong-hold of the woman Lady Margaret Bellenden, 
even though we should build a fort and raise a mount 
against it ; for the race is a rebellious and a bloody race, 
and their hand has been heavy on the children of the 
Covenant, both in the former and the latter times. Their 
hook hath been in our noses, and their bridle betwixt 
our jaws.” 

“ What are their means and men of defence said 
Burley, “ the place is strong ; but I cannot conceive that 
two women can make it good against a host.” 

“ There is also,” said Poundtext, “ Harrison the Stew 
ard, and John Gudyill, even the Lady’s chief butler, who 
boasteth himself a man of war from his youth upward, 
and who spread the banner against the good cause with 
that man of Belial, James Grahame of Montrose.” 

“ Pshaw !” returned Burley, scornfully, “ a butler !” 

“ Also, there is that anciejit malignant,” replied Pound- 
text, “ Miles Bellenden of Charnwood, whose hands 
have been dipped in the blood of the saints.” 

“ If that,” said Burley, “ be Miles Bellenden, the 
brother of Sir Arthur, he is one whose sword will not 
turn back from battle ; but he must now be stricken in 
years.” 

“ There was word in the country as I rode along,” 
said another of the council, “ that so soon as they heard 
of the victory which has been given to us, they caused 
thiit the gates of the Tower, and called in men, and 

8 VOL. II. 


86 


TAXES OF MY XANDXORD. 


collected ammunition. They were ever a fierce and 
malignattt house.” 

“ We will not, with my consent,” said Burley, “ en- 
gage in a siege which may consume time. We must 
rush forward, and follow our advantage by occupying 
Glasgow ; for I do not fear that the troops we have this 
day beaten, even with the assistance of my Lord Ross’s 
regiment, will judge it safe to await our coming.” 

“ Howbeit,” said Poundtext, “ we may display a ban 
ner before the Tower, and blow a trumpet, and summon 
them to come forth. It may be that they will give over 
the place into our mercy, though they be a rebellious 
people. And we will summon the women to come forth 
of their strong-hold, that is, Lady Margaret Bellenden 
and her grand-daughter, and Jenny Dennison, which is a 
girl of an ensnaring eye, and the other maids, and we 
will give them a safe conduct, and send them in peace 
to the city, even to the town of Edinburgh. But John 
Gudyill, and Hugh Harrison, and Miles Bellenden, we 
will restrain with fetters of iron, even as they, in times by- 
past, have done to the martyred saints.” 

“Who talks of safe conduct and of peace 9” said a 
shrill, broken, and overstrained voice from the crowd. 

“ Peace, brother Habakkuk,” said Macbriar, in a 
soothing tone to the speaker. 

“ I will not hold my peace,” reiterated the strange 
and unnatural voice ; “ is this a time to speak of peace, 
when the earth quakes, and the mountains are rent, and 
the rivers are changed into blood, and the two-edged 
sword is drawn from the sheath to drink gore as if it 
were water, and devour flesh as the fire devours dry 
stubble 9” 

While he spoke thus, the orator struggled forward to 
the inner part of the circle, and presented to Morton’s 
wondering eyes a figure worthy of such a voice and such 
language. The rags of a dress which had once been black, 
added to the tattered fragments of a shepherd’s plaid, 
composed a covering scarce fit for the purposes of de- 
cency, much less for those of warmth or comfort A 


OLD MORTALITY. 


87 


ong beard, as white as snow, hung down on his breast^ 
and mingled with busby, uncombed, grizzled hair, which 
hung in elf-locks around his wild and staring visage. 
The features seemed to be extenuated by penury and 
famine, until they hardly retained the likeness of a hu- 
man aspect. The eyes, grey, wild, and wandering, evi- 
dently betokened a bewildered imagination. He held 
in his hand a rusty sword, clotted with blood, as were 
his long lean hands, which were garnished at the ex- 
tremity with nails like eagle’s claws. 

“ ]n the name of Heaven ! who is he 7” said Morton, 
in a whisper to Poundtext, surprised, shocked, and even 
startled at this ghastly apparition, which looked more like 
the resurrection of some cannibal priest, or druid, red 
from bis human sacrifice, than like an earthly mortal. 

“ It is Habakkuk Mucklewrath,” answered Poundtext, 
in the same tone, “ whom the enemy have long detained 
in captivity in forts and castles,- until his understanding 
hath departed from him, and, as I fear, an evil demon hath 
possessed him. Nevertheless, our violent brethren will 
have it, that he speaketh of the spirit, and that they fruc- 
tify by his pouring forth.” 

Here he was interrupted by Mucklewrath, who cried 
in a voice that made the very beams of the roof quiver- — 
“ Who talks of peace and safe conduct 9 wdio speaks of 
mercy to the bloody house of the malignants9 I say, 
take the infants and dash them against the stones ; take 
the daughters and the mothers of the house, and hurl 
them from the battlements of their trust, that the dogs 
may fatten on their blood as they did on that of Jezebel 
the spouse of Ahab, and that their carcasses may be dung 
to the face of the field, even in the portion of their 
fathers !” 

“ He speaks right,” said more than one sullen voice 
from behind ; “ we will be honoured with little service 
in the great cause, if we already make fair weather with 
Heaven’s enemies.” 

“ This is utter abomination and daring impiety,” said 
Morton, unable to contain his indignation. “ What bless 


88 


TALES or MY LANDLORD. 


mg can you expect in a cause, in which you listen to the 
mingled ravings of madness and atrocity 9” 

“ Hush, young man. !” said Kettledrummle, “ and re- 
serve thy censure for that for which thou canst render a 
reason. It is not for thee to judge into what vessels the 
spirit may be poured.” 

“ We judge of the tree by the fruit,” said Poundtext, 

and allow not that to be of divine inspiration that con- 
tradicts the divine laws.” 

“ You forget, brother Poundtext,” said Macbriar, 
“ that these are the latter days, when signs and wonders 
shall be multiplied.” 

Poundtext stood forward to reply ; but, ere he could 
articulate a word, the insane preacher broke in with a 
scream that drowned all competition. 

“ Who talks of signs and wonders 9 Am not I Habak- 
kuk Mucklewrath, whose name is changed to Magor-Mis- 
sabib, because I am made a terror unto myself and unto 
all that are around me 9 — I heard it — When did I hear 
it? — Was it not in the tower of the Bass, that overhang- 
eth the wide wild sea 9 — And it howled in the winds, 
and it roared in the billows, and it screamed, and it whis- 
tled, and it clanged with the screams and the clang and 
the whistle of the sea-birds, as they floated, and flew, and 
dropped, and dived, on the bosom of the waters. I saw 
it — where did I see it 9 — was it not from the high peaks 
of Dunbarton, when I looked westward upon the fertile 
land, and northward on the wild Highland hills, when 
the clouds gathered and the tempest came, and the light- 
nings of Heaven flashed in sheets as wide as the ban- 
ners of an host 9 — What did I see 9 — Dead corpses 
and wounded horses, the rushing together of battle, and 
garments rolled in blood. — What heard I 9 — The voice 
that cried. Slay, slay — smite — slay utterly — let not your 
eye have pity ! slay utterly, old and young, the maiden, 
the child, and the woman whose head is grey — Defile 
the house and fill the courts with the slain !” 

“ We receive the command,” exclaimed more than 
one of the company. “ Six days he hath not spoken 


OliD MORTALITY. 


89 


nor broken bread, and now his tongue is unloosed : — We 
receive the command ; as he hath said so will we do.” 

Astonished, disgusted, and horror-struck, at what he 
had seen and heard, Morton turned away from the circle 
and left the cottage. He was followed by Burley, who 
had his eye on his motions. 

“ Whither are you going ?” said the latter, taking him 
by the arm. 

“ Any where, — I care not whither ; but here I will 
abide no longer.” 

“ Art thou so soon weary, young man answered 
Burley. “ Thy hand is but now put to the plough, and 
wouldst thou already abandon it 9 Is this thy adher- 
ence to the cause of thy father 9” 

“ No cause,” replied Morton, indignantly — “ no cause 
can prosper so conducted. One party declares for the 
ravings of a blood-thirsty madman ; another leader is an 
old scholastic pedant; a third” — he stopped, and his 
companion continued the sentence — “ is a desperate 
homicide, thou wouldst say, like John Balfour of Burley 9 
— I can bear thy misconstruction without resentment. 
Thou dost not consider, that it is not men of sober and 
self-seeking minds, who arise in these days of wrath 
to execute judgment and to accomplish deliverance. 
Hadst thou but seen the armies of England, during her 
parliament of 1640, whose ranks were filled with secta- 
ries and enthusiasts, wilder than the anabaptists of Mun- 
ster, thou wouldst have had more cause to marvel ; and 
yet these men were unconquered on the field, and their 
hands wrought marvellous things for the liberties of the 
land.” 

“ But their affairs,” replied Morton, “ were wisely 
conducted, and the violence of their zeal expended itself 
in their exhortations and sermons, without bringing divis- 
ions into their counsels, or cruelty into their conduct. 1 
have often heard my father say so, and protest, that he 
wondered at nothing so much as the contrast between 
the extravagance of their religious tenets, and the wisdom 
8* VOL. II. 


90 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


and moderation with which they conducted their civil 
and military affairs. But our councils seem all one wide 
chaos of confusion.” 

“ Thou must have patience, Henry Morton,” answered 
Balfour ; “ thou must not leave the cause of thy religion 
and country either for one wild word, or one extravagant 
action. Hear me. 1 have already persuaded the wiser 
of our friends, that the counsellors are too numerous, 
and that we cannot expect that the Midianites shall, by 
so large a number be delivered into our hands. They 
have hearkened to my voice, and our assemblies will be 
shortly reduced within such a number as can consult and 
act together ; and in them thou shalt have a free voice, 
as well as in ordering our affairs of war, and protecting 
those to whom mercy should be shown — Art thou now 
satisfied 9” 

“ It will give me pleasure, doubtless,” answered Mor- 
ton, “ to be the means of softening the horrors of civil 
war; and 1 will not leave the post I have taken,unlessl 
see measures adopted at which my conscience revolts. 
But to no bloody executions, after quarter asked, or 
slaughter without trial, will I lend countenance or sanc- 
tion ; and you may depend on my opposing them, with 
both heart and hand, as constantly and resolutely, if 
attempted by our own followers, as when they are the 
work of the enemy.” 

Balfour waved his hand impatiently. 

“ Thou wilt find,” he said, “ that the stubborn and 
hard-hearted generation with whom we deal, must be 
chastised with scorpions ere their hearts be humbled, 
and ere they accept the punishment of their iniquity. 
The word is gone forth against them, ‘ I will bring a 
sword upon you that shall avenge the quarrel of my 
Covenant.’ But what is done shall be done gravely, 
and with discretion, like that of the worthy James Mel- 
vin, who executed judgment on the tyrant and oppressor, 
Cardinal Beaton.” 

“ I own to you,” replied Morton, “ that I feel still 
more abhorrent at cold-blooded and premeditated cru 


OID MORTALITY, 


91 


eliy, than at that which is practised in the heat of zeal 
and resentment.” 

“ Thou art yet but a youth,” replied Balfour, “ and 
nasi not learned how light in the balance are a few drops 
of blood in comparison to the weight and importance of 
this great national testimony. But be not afraid ; thyself 
shall vole and judge in these matters ; it may be we 
shall see little cause to strive together anent them.” 

With this concession Morton was compelled to be sat- 
isfied for the present, and Burley left him, advising him 
to lie down and get some rest, as the host would probably 
move in the morning. 

“ And you, ’’answered Morton, “ do not you go to rest 
also.?” 

“ No,” said Burley ; “ my eyes must not yet know 
slumber. This is no work to be done lightly ; I have 
yet to perfect the choosing of the committee of leaders, 
and I will call you by times in the morning to be pres- 
ent at their consultation.” 

He turned away, and left Morton to his repose. 

The place in which he found himself was not ill 
adapted for the purpose, being a sheltered nook, be- 
neath a large rock, well protected from the prevailing 
wind. A quantity of moss with which the ground was 
overspread, made a couch soft enough for one who had 
suffered so much hardship and anxiety. Morton wrap- 
ped himself in the horseman’s cloak which he had still re- 
tained, stretched himself on the ground, and had not 
long indulged in melancholy reflections on the state of 
the country, and upon his own condition, ere he was 
relieved from them by deep and sound slumber. 

The rest of the army slept on the ground, dispersed 
in groups, which chose their beds on the field as they 
could best find shelter and convenience. A few of the 
principal leaders held wakeful conference with Burley on 
the state of their affairs, and some watchmen were ap- 
pointed who kept themselves on the alert by chanting 
psalms, or listening to the exercises of the more gifted 
of their number. 


92 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


CHAPTER X. 

Got with much ease — now merrily to horse. 

Henry IV. Part 1. 

With the first peep of day Henry awoke, and fount! 
the faithful Cuddie standing beside him with a portman- 
teau in his hand. 

“ I hae been just putting your honour’s things in readi- 
ness again ye were waking,” said Cuddie, “ as is my 
duty, seeing ye hae been sae gude as to tak me into your 
service.” 

“ I take you into my service, Cuddie said Morton, 
“ you must be dreaming.” 

“ Na, na, stir, answered Cuddie ; “ didna I say when I 
was tied on the horse yonder, that if ever ye gat loose I 
wad be your servant, and ye didna say no 9 and if 
that isna hiring, I kenna what is. Ye gae me nae arles, 
indeed, but ye had gien me eneugh before at Milnwood.” 

“ Well, Cuddie, if you insist on taking the chance of 
my unprosperous fortunes” 

“ Ou ay, I’se warrant us a’ prosper weel eneugh,” an- 
swered Cuddie, cheeringly, “ an anes my auld mither 
was weel putten up. I hae begun the campaigning trade 
at an end that is easy eneugh to learn.” 

“ Pillaging, I suppose.^” said Morton, “ for how else 
could you come by that portmanteau 

“ I wotna if it’s pillaging, or how ye ca’t,” said Cud 
die, “ but it comes natural to a body, and it’s a profitable 
trade. Our folk had tirled the dead dragoons as bare 
as bawbees before we were loose amaist — But when I 
saw the whigs a’ weel yokit by the lugs to Kettledrummle 
and the other chield, I set off at the lang trot on my ain 
errand and your honour’s. Sae I took up the syke a 
wee bit, away to the right, where I saw the marks o’ 
mony a horse-foot, and sure eneugh I cam to a place 


OI.D MORTALITY. 


92 


where there had been some clean leathering, and a’ the 
pair chields were lying there busket wi’ their claes just as 
they had put them on that morning — naebody had found 
out that pose o’ carcages — and wha suld be in the midst 
thereof (as my mither says) but our auld acquaintance, 
Sergeant Both well 9” 

“ Ay, has that man fallen ?” said Morton, 

“Troth has he,” answered Cuddie ; “and his een 
were open, and his brow bent, and his teeth clenched 
thegither, like the jaws of a trap for foumarts when the 
spring’s doun — I was amaist feared to look at him ; how- 
ever, I thought to hae turn about wi’ him, and sae I e’en 
riped his pouches, as he had dune mony an honester man’s ; 
and here’s your ain siller again (or your uncle’s, which 
is the same) that he got at Milnvvood that unlucky night 
that made us a’ sodgers thegither.” 

“ There can be no harm, Cuddie,” said Morton, “ in 
making use of this money, since we know how he came 
by it ; but you must divide with me.” 

“ Bide a wee, bide a wee,” said Cuddie. “ Weel, and 
there’s a bit ring be bad hinging in a black ribbon doun 
on his breast. I am thinking it has been a love-token, 
puir fallow — there’s naebody sae rough but they hae aye a 
kind heart to the lasses — and there’s a book wi’ a wheen 
papers, and I got twa or three odd things that I’ll keep 
to mysell forbye.” 

“ Upon my word you have made a very successful 
foray for a beginner,” said his new master. 

“ Haena 1 e’en now ?” said Cuddie, with great exulta- 
tion. “ I tauld ye I wasna that dooms stupid, if it cam 
to lifting things. — And forbye, I hae gotten twa gude 
horse. A feckless loon of a Straven weaver, that has 
left his loom and his bein house to sit skirling on a cauld 
hill-side, had catched twa dragoon naigs, and he could 
neither gar them hup nor wind, sae he look a gowd 
nohle for them baith. — I suld hae tried him wi’ half the 
siller, but it’s an unco ill place to get change in — Ye’ll 
find the siller’s missing out o’ Bothwell’s purse.” 


94 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


“ You have made a most excellent and useful pur- 
chase, Cuddle ; hut what is that portmanteau 9” 

“ The pockmantle 9” answered Cuddle, “ it was Lord 
Evandale’s yesterday, and it’s yours the day. I fand it 
ahint the bush o’ broom yonder — ilka dog has its day — 
Ye ken what the auld sang says, 

“ Take turn about, mither, quo’ Tam o’ the Linn.” 

And, speaking o’ that, I maun gang and see about my 
mither, puir old body, if your honour hasna ony immedi- 
ate commands.” 

“ But, Cuddle,” said Morton, “ I really cannot take 
these things from you without some recompense.” 

“ Hout, fie, stir,” answered Cuddle, “ ye suld aye be 
taking, — for recompense, ye may think about that some 
other time — I hae seen gay weel to mysellwi’ some things 
that fit me better. What could I do wi’ Lord Evandale’s 
braw claes 9 Sergeant Bothwell’s will serve me weel 
eneugh.” 

Not being able to prevail on the self-constituted and 
disinterested follower to accept of anything for himself 
out of these warlike spoils, Morton resolved to take the 
first opportunity of returning Lord Evandale’s property, 
supposing him yet to be alive ; and, in the meanwhile, 
did not hesitate to avail himself of Cuddle’s prize, so far 
as to appropriate some changes of linen and other trifling 
articles amongst those of more value which the portman- 
teau contained. 

He then hastily looked over the papers which were 
found in Bothwell’s pocket-book. These were of a mis- 
cellaneous description. The roll of his troop, with the 
names of those absent on furlough, memorandums of 
tavern-bills, and lists of delinquents who might be made 
subjects of fine and persecution, first presented them- 
selves, along with a copy of a warrant from the Priv} 
Council to arrest certain persons of distinction therein 
named. In another pocket of the book, were one or two 
commissions which Bothwell had held at different times, 
and certificates of his services abroad, in which his cour- 


OLD MORTALITY. 


95 


age and military talents were highly praised. But the 
most remarkable paper was an accurate account of his 
genealogy, with reference to many documents for estab- 
lishment of its authenticity ; subjoined was a list of the 
ample possessions of the forfeited Earls of Bothwell, and 
a particular account of the proportions in which King 
James VI. had bestowed them on the courtiers and no- 
bility by whose descendants they were at present actually 
possessed ; beneath this list was written, in red letters, in 
the hand of the deceased. Hand Immemor^ F. S. E. B. 
the initials probably intimating Francis Stuart, Earl of 
Bothwell. To these documents, which strongly painted 
the character and feelings of their deceased proprietor, 
were added some which showed him in a light greatly 
different from that in which we have hitherto presented 
him to the reader. 

In a secret pocket of the book, which Morton did not 
discover without some trouble, were one or two letters, 
written in a beautiful female hand. They were dated 
about twenty years back, bore no address, and were sub- 
scribed only by initials. Without having time to peruse 
them accurately, Morton perceived that they contained 
the elegant, yet fond expressions of female affection, di- 
rected towards an object whose jealousy they endeavour- 
ed to sooth, and of whose hasty, suspicious, and impa- 
tient temper, the writer seemed gently to complain. The 
ink of these manuscripts had faded by time, and, not- 
withstanding the great care which had obviously been 
taken for their preservation, they were in one or two 
places chafed so as to be illegible. 

It matters not,” these words were written on the 
envelope of that which had suffered most, “ I have them 
by heart.” 

With these letters was a lock of hair wrapped in a 
copy of verses, written obviously with a feeling which 
atoned, in Morton’s opinion, for the roughness of the 
poetry, and the conceits with which it abounded, accord- 
ing to the taste of the period : 


96 


TAI.IiS OF MY XANDI.ORD 


Thy hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright. 

As in that well-remembered night, 

When first thy mystic braid was wove, 

And first my Agnes whispered love. 

Since then how ofieji hast thou pressed 
The torrid zone of tliis wild breast. 

Whose wrath and hate have sworn to dwell 
With the first sin which peopled hell ; 

A breast whose blood’s a troubled ocean. 

Each throb the earthquake’s wild commotion I— 

O, if such clime thou canst endure. 

Yet keep thy hue unstained and pure. 

What conquest o’er each erring thought 
Of that fierce realm had Agnes wrought ! 

I had not wandered wild and wide. 

With such an angel for my guide ; 

Nor heaven nor earth could then reprove me, 

If she had lived, and lived to love me. 

Not then this world’s wild joys had been 
To me one savage hunting-scene, 

My sole delight the headlong race. 

And frantic hurry of the chase, 

To start, pursue, and bring to bay, 

Rush in, drag down, and rend my prey, 

Then from the carcass turn away ; 

Mine ireful mood had sweetness tamed. 

And soothed each wound which pride inflamed ; — 

Yes, God and man might now approve me. 

If thou hadst lived, and lived to love me ! 

As he finished reading these lines, Morton could not 
forbear reflecting with compassion on the fate of this sin- 
gidar and most unhappy being, who, it appeared, while 
in the lowest state of degradation, and almost of contempt, 
had his recollections continually fixed on the high station 
to which his birth seemed to entitle him ; and, while 
plunged in gross licentiousness, was in secret looking back 
with bitter remorse to the period of his youth, during 
which he had nourished a virtuous, though unfortunate 
attachment. 

“ Alas ! what are we,” said Morton, “ that our best 
and most praiseworthy feelings can be thus debased and 
depraved — that honourable pride can sink into haught> 


OLD MORTALITY. 


97 


^nd desperate indifference for general opinion, and the 
sorrow of blighted affection inhabit the same bosom 
which license, revenge, and rapine have chosen for their 
citadel But it is the same throughout ; the liberal 
principles of one man sink into cold and unfeeling indif- 
ference, the religious zeal of another hurries him into 
frantic and savage enthusiasm. Our resolutions, our 
passions, are like the waves of the sea, and, without the 
aid of Him who formed the human breast, we cannot 
say to its tides, ‘ Thus far shall ye come and no farther.’ ” 
While he thus moralized, he raised his eyes, and ob- 
served that Burley stood before him. 

Already awake said that leader — “ It is well, and 
shows zeal to tread the path before you. What papers 
are these 9” he continued. 

Morton gave him some brief account of Cuddie’s suc- 
cessful marauding party, and handed him the pocket-book 
of Bothwell, with its contents. The Cameronian leader 
looked with some attention on such of the papers as re- 
lated to military affairs, or public business ; but when he 
came to the verses, he threw them from him with contempt. 

“ 1 little thought,” he said, “ when, by the blessing 
of God, I passed my sword three times through the body 
of that arch tool of cruelty and persecution, that a char- 
acter so desperate and so dangerous could have stooped 
to an art as trifling as it is profane. But I see that Satan 
can blend the most different qualities in his well-beloved 
and chosen agents, and that the same hand which can 
wdeld a club or a slaughter-weapon against the godly in 
the valley of destruction, can touch a tinkling lute or a 
gittern, to sooth the ears of the dancing daughters of 
perdition in their Vanity Fair.” 

“ Your ideas of duty, then,” said Morton, “ exclude 
love of the fine arts, which have been supposed in gene- 
ral to purify and to elevate the mind 9” 

“ To me, young man,” answered Burley, “ and to 
those who think as I do, the pleasures of this world, un- 
der whatever name disguised, are vanity, as its grandeui 
9 VOL. II. 


98 


TALES or MY LANDLORD. 


and power are a snare. We have but one object on 
earth, and that is, to build up the temple of the Lord.” 

“ 1 have heard my father observe,” replied Morton, 
“ that many who assumed power in the name of Heaven, 
were as severe in its exercise, and as unwilling to part 
with it, as if they had been solely moved by the motives 
of worldly ambition — But of this another time. Have 
you succeeded in obtaining a committee of the council 
to be nominated 

“ I have,” answered Burley. “ The number is limit- 
ed to six, of which you are one, and I come to call you 
to their deliberations.” 

Morton accompanied him to a sequestered grass-plot, 
where their colleagues awaited them. In this delegation 
of authority, the two principal factions which divided the 
tumultuary array had each taken care to send three of 
their own number. On the part of the Cameronians, 
were Burley, Macbriar, and Kettledrummle ; and on 
that of the moderate party, Poundtext, Henry Morton, 
and a small proprietor, called the Laird of Langcale. 
Thus the two parties were equally balanced by their re- 
presentatives in the committee of management, although 
it seemed likely that those of the most violent opinions 
were, as is usual in such cases, to possess and exert the 
greater degree of energy. Their debate, however, was 
conducted, more like men of this world than could have 
been expected from their conduct on the preceding even- 
ing. After maturely considering their means and situa- 
tion, and the probable increase of their numbers, they 
agreed that they would keep their position for that day, 
in order to refresh their men, and give time to reinforce- 
ments to join them, and that, on the next morning, they 
would direct their march towards Tillietudlem, and sum- 
mon that strong-hold, as they expressed it, of malignancy. 
If it was not surrendered to their summons,they resolved 
to try the effect of a brisk assault, and should that mis- 
carry, it was settled that they should leave a part of their 
number to blockade the place, and reduce it, if possible, 
by famine, while their main body should march forward 


OJ.n MORTALITY. 


99 


.o drive Claverhouse and Lord Ross from the town of 
Glasgow. Such was the determination of the council of 
management ; and thus Morton’s first enterprize in active 
life was likely to be the attack of a castle belonging to 
the parent of his mistress, and defended by her relative, 
Major Bellenden, to whom he personally owed many ob- 
ligations ! He felt fully the embarrassment of his situa- 
tion, yet consoled himself with the reflection, that his 
newly-acquired power in the insurgent army, would give 
him, at all events, the means of extending to the inmates 
of Tillietudlem a protection which no other circumstance 
could have afforded them, and he was not without hope 
that he might be able to mediate such an accommodation 
betwixt them and the presbyterian army as should secure 
them a safe neutrality during the war which was about 
to ensue. 


CHAPTER XI. 

There came a knight from the field of slain, 

His steed was drench’d in blood and raiin. 

Finlay. 

We must now return to the fortress of Tillietudlem and 
Its inhabitants. The morning, being the first after the 
battle of Loudon-hill, had dawned upon its battlements, 
and the defenders had already resumed the labours by 
which they proposed to render the place tenable, when the 
watchman, who was placed in a high turret, called the 
Warder’s Tower, gave the signal that a horseman was ap- 
proaching As he came nearer, his dress indicated an 
officer of the Life-Guards ; and the slowness of his horse’s 
pace, as well as the manner in which the rider stooped on 
the saddle-bow, plainly showed that he was sick or wound- 
ed. The wicket was instantly opened to receive him, and 
FiOrd Evandale rode into the court-yard, so reduced by 


100 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


loss of blood, that he was unable to dismount without as- 
sistance. As he entered the hall, leaning upon a servant, 
the ladies shrieked with surprise and terror ; for, pale as 
death, stained with blood, his regimentals soiled and torn, 
and his hair matted and disordered, he resembled rather 
a spectre than a human being. But their next exclama- 
tion was that of joy at his escape. 

“ Thank God !” exclaimed Lady Margaret, “ that you 
are here, and have escaped the hands of the blood-thirsty 
murderers who have cut off so many of the King’s loyal 
servants !” 

“ Thank God !” added Edith, “ that you are here and 
in safety ! We have dreaded the worst. But you are 
wounded, and I fear we have little the means of assisting 
you.” 

“ My wounds are only sword-cuts,” answered the young 
nobleman, as he reposed himself on a seat ; “ the pain is 
not worth mentioning, and I should not even feel exhaust- 
ed but for the loss of blood. But it was not my purpose 
to bring my weakness to add to your danger and distress, 
but to relieve them, if possible. What can I do for you 
— Permit me,” he added, addressing Lady Margaret — 
“ permit me to think and act as your son, my dear madam 
— as your brother, Edith !” 

He pronounced the last part of the sentence with some 
emphasis, as if he feared that the apprehension of his pre- 
tensions as a suitor might render his proffered services 
unacceptable to Miss Bellenden. She was not insensible 
to his delicacy, but there was no time for exchange of 
sentiments. 

“We are preparing for our defence,” said the old lady, 
with great dignity ; “ my brother has taken charge of our 
garrison, and, by the grace of God, we will give the rebels 
such a reception as they deserve.” 

“ How gladly,” said Evandale, “ would I share in the 
defence of the Castle ’ But in my present state, I should 
be but a burden to you, nay, something worse ; for, the 
knowledge that an officer of the Life-Guards was in the 
Castle WQuld be sufficient to make these roguej more des- 


OLD MORTALITY. 


101 


oerately earnest to possess themselves of it. If they find 
t defended only by the family, they may possibly march 
on to Glasgow, rather than hazard an assault.” 

“ And can you think so meanly of us, my lord,” said 
Edith, with the generous burst of feeling which woman so 
often evinces, and which becomes her so well, her voice 
faltering through eagerness, and her brow colouring with 
the noble warmth which dictated her language — “ Can 
you think so meanly of your friends, as that they would 
permit such considerations to interfere with their sheltering 
and protecting you at a moment when you are unable to 
defend yourself, and when the whole country is filled with 
the enemy 9 Is there a cottage in Scotland whose owners 
would permit a valued friend to leave it in such circum- 
stances 9 And can you think we will allow you to go from 
a castle which we hold to be strong enough for our own 
defence 9” 

“ Lord Evandale need never think of it,” said Lady 
Margaret, ‘‘ I will dress his wounds myself ; it is all an 
old wife is fit for in war time ; but to quit the Castle of 
Tillietudlem when the sword of the enemy is drawn to 
slay him, — the meanest trooper that ever wore the King’s 
coat on his back should not do so, much less my young 
Lord Evandale. — Ours is not a house that ought to brook 
such dishonour. The Tower of Tillietudlem has been too 
much distinguished by the visit of his most sacred” 

Here she was interrupted by the entrance of the Major. 

“ We have taken a prisoner, my dear uncle,” said 
Edith — “ a wounded prisoner, and he wants to escape 
from us. You must help us to keep him by force.” 

‘‘ Lord Evandale !” exclaimed the veteran, “ I am as 
much pleased as when I got my first commission. Cla- 
verhouse reported you were killed, or missing at least.” 

“ I should have been slain, but for a friend of yours,” 
said Lord Evandale, speaking with some emotion, and 
bending his eyes on the ground, as if he wished to avoid 
seeing the impression that what he was about to say would 
make upon Miss Bellenden. “ I was unhorsed and de- 
9* VOL. II. 


102 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


fenceless, and the sword raised to despatch me, when 
young Mr. Morton, the prisoner for whom you interested 
yourself yesterday morning, interposed in the most gen- 
erous manner, preserved my life, and furnished me with 
the means of escaping.” 

As he ended the sentence, a painful curiosity overcame 
his first resolution ; he raised his eyes to Edith’s face, and 
imagined he could read in the glow of her cheek and the 
sparkle of her eye, joy at hearing of her lover’s safety and 
freedom, and triumph at his not having been left last in 
the race of generosity. Such, indeed, were her feelings, 
but they were also mingled with admiration of the ready 
frankness with which Lord Evandale had hastened to bear 
witness to the merit of a favoured rival, and to acknowl- 
edge an obligation which, in all probability, he would 
rather have owed to any other individual in the world. 

Major Bellenden, who would never have observed the 
emotions of either party, even had they been much more 
markedly expressed, contented himself with saying, 
“ Since Henry Morton has influence with these rascals, 1 
am glad he has so exerted it ; but I hope he will get clear 
of them as soon as he can. Indeed, I cannot doubt it. 
I know his principles, and that he detests their cant and 
hypocrisy. I have heard him laugh a thousand times at 
the pedantry of that old presbyterian scoundrel. Pound- 
text, who, after enjoying the indulgence of the govern- 
ment for so many years, has now, upon the very first ruffle 
shown himself in his own proper colours, and set off, with 
three parts of his crop-eared congregation, to join the 
host of the fanatics. — But how did you escape after leav- 
ing the field, my lord 

“ I rode for my life, as a recreant knight must,” an- 
swered Lord Evandale, smiling. “ 1 took the route wher j 
I thought I had least chance of meeting with any of the 
enemy, and I found shelter for several hours — you wdll 
hardly guess where.” 

“ At Castle Bracklan, perhaps,” said Lady Margaret, 
‘‘ or in the house of some other loval gentleman 9” 


OLD MORTALITY. 


103 


No, madam. I was repulsed, under one mean pre- 
text or another, from more than one house of that descrip- 
tion, for fear of the enemy following my traces ; but I 
found refuge in the cottage of a poor widow, whose hus- 
band had been shot within these three months by a party 
of our corps, and whose two sons are at this very mo- 
ment with the insurgents.” 

“ Indeed said Lady Margaret Bellenden ; “ and 
was a fanatic woman capable of such generosity 9 — but 
she disapproved, I suppose, of the tenets of her family 9” 

“ Far from it, madam,” continued the young noble- 
man ; “ she was in principle a rigid recusant, but she saw 
my danger and distress, considered me as a fellow crea- 
ture, and forgot that 1 was a cavalier and a soldier. She 
bound my wounds, and permitted me to rest upon her 
bed, concealed me from a party of the insurgents who 
were seeking for stragglers, supplied me with food, and 
did not suffer me to leave my place of refuge until she had 
learned that I had every chance of getting to this tower 
without danger.” 

“ It was nobly done,” said Miss Bellenden ; “ and I 
trust you will have an opportunity of rewarding her gen- 
erosity.” 

“ I am running up an arrear of obligation on all sides. 
Miss Bellenden, during these unfortunate occurrences,” 
replied Lord Evandale ; “ but when I can attain the 
means of showing my gratitude, the will shall not be 
wanting.” 

All now joined in pressing Lord Evandale to relinquish 
his intention of leaving the Castle ; but the argument of 
Major Bellenden proved the most effectual. 

Your presence in the Castle will be most useful, if 
not absolutely necessary, my Lord, in order to maintain, 
by your authority, proper discipline among the fellows 
whom Claverhouse has left in garrison here, and who do 
flot prove to be of the most orderly description of inmates ; 
and, indeed, we have the Colonel’s authority, for that 
very purpose, to detain any officer of his regiment who 
might pass this way.” 


104 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


“ That,” said Lord Evandale, “ is an inanswerab e 
argument, since it shows me that my residence here may 
be useful, even in my present disabled state.” 

“ For your wounds, my lord,” said the Major, “ if my 
sister. Lady Bellenden, will undertake to give battle to 
any feverish symptom, if such should appear, I will an- 
swer that my old campaigner, Gideon Pike, shall dress a 
flesh-wound with any of the incorporation of Barber- 
Surgeons. He had enough of practice in Montrose’s 
time, for we had few regularly-bred army chirurgeons, as 
you may well suppose. — You agree to stay with us, then 9” 

“ My reasons for leaving the Castle,” said Lord Evan- 
dale, glancing a look towards Edith, “ though they evi- 
dently seemed weighty, must needs give way to those 
which infer the power of serving you. May I presume, 
Major, to inquire into the means and plan of defence 
which you have prepared 9 or can I attend you to exam- 
ine the works 9” 

It did not escape Miss Bellenden, that Lord Evandale 
seemed much exhausted both m body and mind. “ I 
think, sir,” she said, addressing the Major, “ that since 
Lord Evandale condescends to become an officer of our 
garrison, you should begin by rendering him amenable to 
your authority, and ordering him to his apartment, that 
he may take some refreshment ere he enters on military 
discussions.” 

“ Edith is right,” said the old lady ; “ you must go in- 
stantly to bed, my lord, and take some febrifuge, which 1 
will prepare with my own hand ; and my lady-in-waiting 
Mistress Martha Weddell, shall make some friar’s chick- 
en, or something very light. I would not advise wine.- 
John Gudyill, let the housekeeper make ready the cham- 
ber of dais. Lord Evandale must lie down instantly 
Pike will take off the dressings, and examine the state of 
the wounds.” 

“ These are melancholy preparations, madam,” said 
Lord Evandale, as he returned thanks to Lady Margaret, 
and was about to leave the hall, — but I must submit to 
vour ladyship’s directions ; and 1 trust that your skill will 


OLD MORTALITV. 


105 


soon make me a more able defender of your castle than 
I am at present. You must render my body serviceable 
as soon as you can, for you have no use for my head 
while you have Major Bellenden.” 

With these words he left the apartment. 

“ An excellent young man, and a modest,” said the 
Major. 

“ None of that conceit,” said Lady Margaret, “ that 
often makes young folks suppose they know better how 
their complaints should be treated than people that have 
bad experience.” 

“ And so generous and handsome a young nobleman,” 
said Jenny Dennison, who had entered during the latter 
part of this conversation, and was now left alone with her 
mistress in the hall, the Major returning to his military 
cares, and Lady Margaret to her medical preparations. 

Edith only answered these encomiums with a sigh ; but, 
although silent, she felt and knew better than any one how 
much they were merited by the person on whom they 
were bestowed. Jenny, however, failed not to follow up 
her blow. 

“ After a’, its true that my leddy says — there’s nae 
trusting a presbyterian ; they are a’ faithless man-sworn 
louns. Whae wad hae thought that young Milnwood and 
Cuddie Headrigg wad hae taken on wi’ thae rebel black- 
guards 

“ What do you mean by such improbable nonsense, 
Jenny V' said her young mistress, very much displeased. 

“ I ken it’s no pleasing for you to hear, madam,” an- 
swered Jenny, hardily ; “ and it’s as little pleasant for me 
to tell ; but as gude ye suld ken a’ about it sune as syne, 
for the haill castle’s ringing wi’t.” 

“ Ringing with what, Jenny ^ Have you a mind to 
drive me mad 9” answered Edith, impatiently. 

“ Just that Henry Morton of Milnwood is out wi’ the 
rebels, and ane o’ their chief leaders.” 

“ It is a falsehood!” said Edith — “ a most base calum- 
ny I and you are very bold to dare to repeat it to me. 
Henry Morton is incapable of such treachery to his king 


lOG TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 

and country — such cruelty to me — to — to all the innocent 
and defenceless victims, 1 mean, who must suffer in a 
civil war — I tell you he is utterly incapable of it, in every 
sense.” 

“ Dear ! dear ! Miss Edith,” replied Jenny, still constant 
to her text ; “ they maun be better acquainted wi’ young 
men than I am, or ever wish to be, that can tell preceese- 
ly what they’re capable or no capable o’. But there has 
been Trooper Tam, and another chield. out in bonnets 
and grey plaids, like countrymen, to recon — reconnoitre, 
I think John Gudyill ca’d it ; and they hae been amang 
the rebels, and brought back word that they had seen 
young Milnwood mounted on ane o’ the dragoon horses 
that w'as ta’en at Loudon-hill, armed wi’ swords and pis- 
tols, like wha but him, and hand and glove wi’ the fore- 
most o’ them, and dreeling and commanding the men ; 
and Cuddie at the heels o’ him, in ane o’ Sergeant Both- 
well’s laced waistcoats, and a cockii hat with a bab o’ blue 
ribands at it for the auld cause o’ the Covenant, (but 
Cuddie aye liked a blue riband) and a ruffled sark, like 
ony lord o’ the land — it sets the like o’ him, indeed !” 

“ Jenny,” said her young mistress, hastily, “ it is im- 
possible these men’s report can be true ; my uncle has 
heard nothing of it at this instant.” 

“ Because Tam Halliday,” answered the hand-maiden, 
“ came in just five minutes after Lord Evandale ; and 
when he heard his lordship was in the Castle, he swore 
(the profane loon) he would be d — d ere he would make 
the report, as he ca’d it, of his news to Major Bellenden, 
since there was an officer of his ain regiment in the gar- 
rison. Sae he wad have said naething till Lord Evan- 
dale wakened the next morning ; only he tauld me about 
It,” (here Jenny looked a little down,) “ just to vex me 
about Cuddie.” 

“ Poh, you silly girl,” said Edith, assuming some cour- 
age, “ it is all a trick of that fellow to teaze you.” 

Na, madam, it canna be that, for John Gudyill took 
the other dragoon (he’s an auld hard-favoured man, I wot- 
na his name) into the cellar, and gae him a tass o’ brandy 


OLD MORTALITY. 


107 


to get the news out o’ him, and he said just the same gs 
Tam Halliday, word for word ; and Mr. Gudyill was in 
sic a rage, that he tauld it a’ ower again to us, and says 
the hail! rebellion is owing to the nonsense o’ my Leddy, 
and the Major, and Lord Evandale, that begged off young 
Milnwood and Cuddie yesterday morn.’ng, for that, if they 
had suffered, the country wad hae been quiet — and troth 
1 am niuckle o’ that opinion mysell.” 

This last commentary Jenny added to her tale, in re- 
sentment of her mistress’s extreme and obstinate incredu- 
lity. She was instantly alarmed, however, by the effect 
which her news produced upon her young lady, an 
effect rendered doubly violent by the High-Church 
principles and prejudices in which Miss Bellenden had 
been educated. Her complexion became as pale as 
a corpse, her respiration so difficult that it was on the 
point of altogether failing her, and her limbs so incapable 
of supporting her that she sunk, rather than sat, down 
upon one of the seats in the hall, and seemed on the eve 
of fainting. Jenny tried cold water, burnt feathers, cut- 
ting of laces, and all other remedies usual in hysterical 
cases ; but without any immediate effect. 

“ God forgie me ! what hae I done 9” said the repent- 
ant fille-de-chambre, “ I wish my tongue had been cuttit 
out ! — Wha wad hae thought o’ her taking on that way, 
and a’ for a young lad — O, Miss Edith — dear Miss 
Edith, baud your heart up about it, it’s maybe no true for a’ 
that I hae said — O, I wish my mouth had been blistered ! 
— A’ body tells me niy tongue will do me a mischief some 
day. What if my Leddy comes 9 or the Major 9 — and 
she’s sitting in the throne too that naebody has sat in 
since that weary morning the King was here ! — O, what 
will I do! O what will become o’ us !” 

While Jenny Dennison thus lamented herself and hei 
mistress, Edith slowly returned from the paroxysm into 
which she had been thrown by this unexpected intelligence. 

“ If he had been unfortunate,” she said, “ 1 never 
would have deserted him. I never did so, even when 
there was danger and disgrace in pleading his cause. If 


108 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


he had died, I would have mourned him — if he had been 
unfaithful, I would have forgiven him ; but a rebel to his 
King, — a traitor to his country, — the associate and col- 
league of cut-throats and common- stabbers, — the perse- 
cutor of all that is noble, — the professed and blasphemous 
enemy of all that is sacred, — I will tear him from my heart, 
if my life-blood should ebb in the effort !” 

She wiped her eyes, and rose hastily from the great 
chair, (or throne, as Lady Margaret used to call it,) while 
the terrified damsel hastened to shake up the cushion, and 
efface the appearance of any one having occupied that 
sacred seat ; although King Charles himself, considering 
the youth and beauty as well as the affliction of the mo- 
mentary usurper of his hallowed chair, would probably 
have thought very little of the profanation. She then 
hastened officiously to press hei- support on Edith, as she 
paced the hall apparently in deep meditation. 

“ Tak my arm, madam ; better just tak my arm; sor- 
row maun hae its vent, and doubtless” 

‘‘ No, Jenny,” said Edith, with firmness ; “ you have 
seen my weakness, and you shall see my strength.” 

“ But ye leaned on me the other morning. Miss Edith, 
when ye were sae sair grieved.” 

“ Misplaced and erring affection may require support, 
Jenny, — duty can support itself ; yet I will do nothing 
rashly. I will be aware of the reasons of his conduct — 
and then — cast him off forever,” was the firm and deter- 
mined answer of her young lady. 

Overawed by a manner of which she could neither 
conceive the motive, nor estimate the merit, Jenny mut- 
tered between her teeth, “ Odd, when the first flight’ 
ower. Miss Edith taks it as easy as I do, and muckle ea- 
sier, and I’m sure I ne’er cared half sae muckle about 
Cuddie Headrigg as she did about young Milnwood. 
Forbye that, it’s maybe as weel to hae a friend on baith 
sides ; for, if the whigs suld come to tak the Castle, as 
it’s like they may, when there’s sae little victual, and the 
dragoons wasting what’s o’t, ou, in that case, Milnwood 
and Cuddie wad hae the upper hand, and their freend- 


OiD MORTAllTy. 


109 


ship wad be worth siller — I was thinking sae this morning 
or 1 heard the news.” 

With this consolatory reflection the damsel went about 
her usual occupations, leaving her mistress to school her 
mind as she best might, for eradicating the sentiments 
which she had hitherto entertained towards Henry Morton. 


CHAPTER XII. 

Once more into the breach— dear friends, once more. 

Henry V. 


On the evening of the day, all the information which 
they could procure led them to expect that the insurgent 
army would be with early dawn on their march against 
Tillietudlem. Lord Evandale’s wounds had been exam- 
ined by Pike, who reported them in a very promising state. 
They were numerous, but none of any consequence ; and 
the loss of blood, as much perhaps as the boasted speci- 
fic of Lady Margaret, had prevented any tendency to 
fever ; so that, notwithstanding he felt some pain and great 
weakness, the patient maintained that he was able to creep 
about with the assistance of a stick. In these circum- 
stances, he refused to be confined to his apartment, both 
that he might encourage the soldiers by his presence, and 
suggest any necessary addition to the plan of defence, 
which tlie Major might be supposed to have arranged up- 
on something of an antiquated fashion of warfare. Lord 
Evandale was well qualified to give advice on such sub- 
jects, having served, during his early youth, both in 
France and in the Low Countries. There was little or 
no occasion, however, for altering the preparations already 
made ; and, excepting on the article of provisions, there 
seemed no i cason to fear for the defence of so strong a 

10 VOL. ir. 


no 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


place against such assailants as those by whom it was 
threatened. 

With the peep of day, Lord Evandale and Major Bel- 
lenden were on the battlements again, viewing and re- 
viewing the state of their preparations, and anxiously ex- 
pecting the approach of the enemy. I ought to observe, 
that the report of the spies had now been regularly made 
and received ; but the Major treated the report that Mor- 
ton was in arms against the government, with the most 
scornful incredulity. 

“ I know the lad better,” was the only reply he deign- 
ed to make ; “ the fellows have not dared to venture near 
enough, and have been deceived by some fanciful resem- 
blance or have picked up some story.” 

“ I differ from you. Major,” answered Lord Evandale ; 
“ I think you will see that young gentleman at the head 
of the insurgents; and, though 1 shall be heartily sorry for 
it, I shall not be greatly surprised.” 

“ You are as bad as Claverhouse,” said the Major, 
“ who contended yesterday morning down my very throat, 
that this young fellow, who is as high-spirited and gentle- 
man-like a boy as I have ever known, wanted but an op- 
portunity to place himself at the head of the rebels.” 

“ And considering the usage which he has received, and 
the suspicions under which he lies,” said Lord Evandale, 
“ what other course is open to him 9 For my own part, 
I should hardly know whether he deserved most blame 
or pity.” 

“ Blame, my lord 9 — Pity I” echoed the Major, as- 
tonished at hearing such sentiments ; “ he would deserve 
to be hanged, that’s all ; and, were he my own son, I 
should see him strung up with pleasure — Blame indeed I 
But your lordship cannot think as you are pleased to 
speak!” 

“ I give you my honour. Major Bellenden, that 1 have 
been for some lime of opinion, that our politicians and 
nrelates have driven matters to a painful extremity in this 
country, and have alienated, by violence of various kinds, 
not only the lower classes, but all those in the upper ranks, 


OLD MORTALITY. 


Ill 


whom strong party-feeling, or a desire of court-interest, 
does not attach to their standard.” 

“ 1 am no politician,” answered the Major, “ and I do 
not understand nice distinctions. My sword is the King’s, 
and when he commands 1 draw it in his cause.” 

“ I trust,” replied the young lord, you will not find 
me more backward than yourself, though I heartily wish 
that the enemy were foreigners. It is however, nQ time 
to debate that matter, for yonder they come, and we must 
defend ourselves as well as we can.” 

As Lord Evandale spoke, the van of the insurgents be- 
gan to make their appearance on the road which crossed 
the top of the hill, and thence descended opposite to the 
Tower. They did not, however, move downwards, as il 
aware that, in doing so, their columns would be exposed 
to the fire of the artillery of the place. But their num- 
bers, which at first seemed few, appeared presently so to 
deepen and concentrate themselves, that judging of the 
masses which occupied the road behind the hill from the 
closeness of the front which they presented on the top of 
It, their force appeared very considerable. There was a 
pause of anxiety on both sides ; and, while the unsteady 
ranks of the Covenanters were agitated, as if by pressure 
behind, or uncertainty as to their next movement, their 
arms, picturesque from their variety, glanced in the morn- 
ing sun, whose beams were reflected from a grove of 
pikes, muskets, halberds, and battle-axes. The armed 
mass occupied, for a few minutes, this fluctuating position, 
until three or four horsemen, who seemed to be leaders, 
advanced from the front, and occupied the height a little 
nearer to the Castle. John Gudyill, who was not without 
some skill as an artilleryman, brought a gun to bear on 
this detached group. 

“ I’ll flee the falcon,” (so the small cannon was called) 
— “ I’ll flee the falcon whene’er your honour gies com- 
mand ; my certie, she’ll ruffle their feathers for them!” 

The Major looked at Lord Evandale. 

“ Stay a moment,” said the young nobleman, “ they 
send us a flag of truce.” 


112 


TAJL.ES OF MY LANDLORD. 


In fact, one of the horsemen at that moment dismount- 
ed, and, displaying a white cloth on a pike, moved for- 
ward towards the Tower, while the Major and Lord Evan- 
dale, descending from the battlement of the main fortress, 
advanced to meet him as far as the barricade, judging it 
unwise to admit him within the precincts which they de- 
signed to defend. At the same time that the ambassador 
set forth, the group of horsemen, as if they had anticipat- 
ed the preparations of John Gudyill for their annoyance, 
withdrew from the advanced station which they had oc- 
cupied, and fell back to the main body. 

The envoy of the Covenanters, to judge by his mien 
and manner, seemed fully imbued with that spiritual pride 
which distinguished his sect. His features were drawn 
up to a contemptuous primness, and his half-shut eyes 
seemed to scorn to look upon the terrestrial objects around, 
while, at every solemn stride, his toes were pointed out- 
wards with an air that appeared to despise the ground on 
which they trod. Lord Evandale could not suppress a 
smile at this singular figure. 

“ Did you ever,’’ said he to Major Bellenden, “ see 
such an absurd automaton 9 One would swear it moves 
upon springs — Can it speak, think you 9” 

“ O, ay,” said the Major ; “ that seems to be one of 
my old acquaintance, a genuine puritan of the right phar- 
asaical leaven — Stay — he coughs and hems ; he is about 
to summon the Castle with the but-end of a sermon in- 
stead of a parley on the trumpet.” 

The veteran, who in his day had had many an oppor- 
tunity to become acquainted with the manners of these re- 
ligionists, was not far mistaken in his conjecture ; only 
that, instead of a prose exordium, the Laird of Langcale; 
for it was no less a personage — uplifted, with a Stentorian 
voice, a verse of the twenty-fourth Psalm : 

‘‘ Ye gates lift up your heads ! ye doors, 

Doors that do lest for aye, 

Be lifted up” 

“I told you so,” said the Major to Evandale, and -then 


Oi.D MORTAIiITY. 


113 


presented himself at the entrance of the barricade, de 
manding to know for what purpose or intent he made that 
doleful noise, like a hog in a high wind, beneath the gates 
of the Castle. 

“ I come,” replied the ambassador, in a high and shrill 
voice, and without any of the usual salutations or defer- 
ences, — “ I come from the godly army of the Solemn 
League and Covenant, to speak with two carnal malig- 
nants, William Maxwell, called Lord Evandale, and Miles 
Bellenden of Charnwood.” 

“ And what have you to say to Miles Bellenden and 
Lord Evandale 9” asked the Major. 

“ Are you the parties said the Laird of Langcale, 
in the same sharp, conceited, disrespectful tone of voice. 

“ Even so, for fault of a better,” said the Major. 

“ Then there is the public summons,” said the envoy, 
putting a paper into Lord Evandale’s hand, “ and there is 
a private letter for Miles Bellenden from a godly youth, 
who is honoured with leading a part of our host. Read 
them quickly, and God give you grace to fructify by the 
contents, though it is muckle to be doubted.” 

The summons ran thus : “ We, the named and consti- 
tuted leaders of the gentlemen, ministers, and others, 
presently in arms for the cause of liberty and true relig- 
ion, do warn and summon William Lord Evandale and 
Miles Bellenden of Charnwood, and others presently in 
arms, and keeping garrison in the Tower of Tillietudlem, 
to surrender the said Tower upon fair conditions of quar- 
ter, and license to depart with bag and baggage, otherwise 
to suffer such extremity of fire and sword as belong by 
the laws of war to those who hold out an untenable post. 
And so may God defend his own good cause ” 

This summons was signed by John Balfour of Burley, 
as cuarter-master-general of the army of the Covenant, 
for himself, and in name of the other leaders. 

The letter to Major Bellenden was from Henry Mor 
ton. It was couched in the following language ; 

10^ VOL. II. 


114 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


“ I have taken a step, my venerable friend, which, 
among many painful consequences, will, I am afraid, incur 
your very decided disapprobation. But I have taken my 
resolution in honour and good faith, and with the full approv- 
al of my own conscience. I can no longer submit to have 
my own rights and those of my fellow-subjects trampled 
upon, our freedom violated, our persons insulted, and our 
blood spilt, without just cause or legal trial. Providence, 
through the violence of the oppressors themselves, seems 
now to have opened a way of deliverance from this intol- 
erable tyranny, and I do not hold him deserving of the 
name and rights of a freeman, who, thinking as I do, shall 
withhold his arm from the cause of his country. But 
God, who knows my heart, be my witness, that I do not 
share the angry or violent passions of the oppressed and 
harassed sufferers with whom I am now acting. My most 
earnest and anxious desire is, to see this unnatural war 
brought to a speedy end, by the union of the good, wise, 
and moderate of all parties, and a peace restored, which, 
without injury to the King’s constitutional rights, may sub- 
stitute the authority of equal laws for that of military vio- 
lence, and permitting to all men to worship God accord- 
ing to their own consciences, may subdue fanatical enthu- 
siasm by reason and mildness, instead of driving it to 
frenzy by persecution and intolerance. 

“ With these sentiments, you may conceive with what 
pain I appear in arms before the house of your venerable 
relative, which we understand you propose to hold out 
against us. Permit me to press upon you the assurance, 
that such a measure will only lead to the effusion of blood 
— that, if repulsed in the assault, we are yet strong enough 
lo invest the place, and reduce it by hunger, being aware 
of your indifferent preparations to sustain a protracted 
siege. It would grieve me to the heart to think what 
would be the sufferings in such a case, and upon whom 
they would chiefly fall. 

“ Do not suppose, my respected friend, that 1 would 
propose to you any terms which could compromise the 
high and honourable character which you have so deserv- 


OLD MORTALITY. 


115 


edly won and so long borne. If the regular soldiers (to 
whom I will ensure a safe retreat) are dismissed from the 
place, I trust no more will be required than your parole 
to remain neuter during this unhappy contest, and I will 
take care that Lady Margaret’s property, as well as yours, 
shall be duly respected, and no garrison intruded upon 
you. I could say much in favour of this proposal ; but 
I fear, as I must, in the present instance, appear criminal 
in your eyes, good arguments would lose their influence 
when coming from an unwelcome quarter. I will, there- 
fore, break off with assuring you, that whatever your sen- 
timents may be hereafter towards me, my sense of grati- 
tude to you can never be diminished or erased, and it 
would be the happiest moment of my life that should give 
me more effectual means than mere words to assure you 
of it. Therefore, although in the first moment of resent- 
ment you may reject the proposal I make to you, let not 
that prevent you from resuming the topic, if future events 
should render it more acceptable ; for whenever, or how- 
soever, I can be of service to you, it will always afford 
the greatest satisfaction to Henry Morton.” 

Having read this long letter with the most marked in- 
dignation, Major Bellenden put it into the hands of Lord 
Evandale. 

“ I would not have believed this,” he said, “ of Henry 
Morton, if half mankind had sworn it ! The ungrateful 
rebellious traitor ! rebellious in cold blood, and without 
even the pretext of enthusiasm that warms the liver of 
such a crack-brained fop as our friend the envoy there. 
But I should have remembered he was a presbyterian — I 
ought to have been aware that I was nursing a wolf-cub, 
whose diabolical nature would make him tear and snatch 
at me on the first opportunity. Were Saint Paul on earth 
again and a presbyterian, he would be a rebel in three 
months — it is in the very blood of them.” 

“ Well,” said Lord Evandale, “ I will be the last to re- 
commend surrender ; but, if our provisions fail, and we 
receive no relief from Edinburgh, or Glasgow, I think we 


116 


TALES or MY LANDLORD. 


ought to avail ourselves of this opening, to get the ladies 
at least safe out of the Castle.” 

“ They will endure all, ere they would accept the pro- 
tecUon of such a smooth-tongued hypocrite,” answered the 
Major indignantly ; “ I would renounce them for relatives 
were it otherwise. But let us dismiss the worthy ambas- 
sador. — My friend,” he said, turning to Langcale, “ tell 
your leaders, and the mob they have gathered yonder, that, 
if they have not a particular opinion of the hardness of their 
own skulls, I would advise them to beware how they knock 
them against these old walls. x4nd let them send no more 
flags of truce, or we will hang up the messenger in retal- 
iation of the murder of Cornet Grahame.” 

With this answer the ambassador returned to those by 
whom he had been sent. He had no sooner reached the 
main body than a murmur was heard amongst the multi- 
tude, and there was raised, in front of their ranks, an 
ample red flag, the borders of which were edged with 
blue. As this signal of war and defiance spread out its 
large folds upon the morning wind, the ancient banner of 
Lady Margaret’s family, together with the royal ensign, 
were immediately hoisted on the walls of the Tower, and, 
at the same time, a round of artillery was discharged 
against the foremost ranks of the insurgents, by which 
they sustained some loss. Their leaders instantly with- 
drew them to the shelter of the brow of the hill. 

“ 1 think,” said John Gudyill, while he busied himself 
in re-charging his guns, “ they hae fund the falcon’s neb 
a bit ower hard for them — It’s no for nought that the 
hawk whistles.” 

But as be uttered these words, the ridge was once more 
crowded with the ranks of the enemy. A general dis- 
charge of their fire-arms was directed against the defend- 
ers upon the battlements. Under cover of the smoke, a 
column of picked men rushed down the road with deter- 
mined courage, and, sustaining with firmness a heavy fire 
from the garrison, they forced their way, in spite of op- 
position, to the first barricade by which the avenue was 
defended. They were led on by Balfour in person, who 


OLD MORTALITY. 


117 


displayed courage equal to his enthusiasm, and, in spite 
of every opposition, forced the barricade, killing and 
wounding several of the defenders, and compelling the 
rest to retreat to their second position. The precautions, 
however, of Major Bellenden, rendered this success un- 
availing ; for no sooner were the Covenanters in posses- 
sion of the post, than a close and destructive fire was 
poured into it from the Castle, and from those stations 
which commanded it in the rear. Having no means of 
protecting themselves from this fire, or of returning it with 
effect against men who were under cover of their barri- 
cades and defences, the Covenanters were obliged to re- 
treat ; but not until they had, with their axes, destroyed 
the stockade, so as to render it impossible for the defend- 
ers to re-occupy it. 

Balfour was the last man that retired. He even re- 
mained for a short space, almost alone, with an axe in his 
hand, labouring like a pioneer amid the storm of balls, 
many of which were specially aimed against him. The 
retreat of the party he commanded was not effected with- 
out heavy loss, and served as a severe lesson concerning 
the local advantages possessed by the garrison. 

The next attack of the Covenanters was made with 
more caution. A strong party of marksmen, (many of 
them competitors at the game of the popinjay) under the 
command of Henry Morton, glided through the woods 
where they afforded them the best shelter, and, avoiding 
the open road, endeavoured, by forcing their way through 
the bushes and trees, and up the rocks which surrounded 
it on either side, to gain a position, from which, without 
being exposed in an intolerable degree, they might annoy 
the flank of the second barricade, while it was menaced 
in front by a second attack from Burley. The besieged 
saw the danger of this movement, and endeavoured to 
impede the approach of the marksmen, by firing upon 
them at every point where they showed themselves. The 
assailants, on the other hand, displayed great coolness, 
spirit, and judgment in the manner in which they ap- 
proached the defences. This was, in a great measure, to 


118 


TALES OF MY LAT^DLORD. 


be ascribed to the steady and adroit manner in which they 
were conducted by their youthfuJ leader, who showed as 
much skill in protecting his own followers as spirit in an- 
noying the enemy. 

He repeatedly enjoined his marksmen to direct their 
aim chiefly upon the red-coats, and to save the others en- 
gaged in the defence of the Castle ; and, above all, to 
spare the life of the old Major, whose anxiety made him 
more than once expose himself in a manner, that, with- 
out such generosity on the part of the enemy, might have 
proved fatal. A dropping fire of musketry now glanced 
from every part of the precipitous mount on which the 
Castle was founded. From bush to bush — from crag to 
crag — from tree to tree, the marksmen continued to ad- 
vance, availing themselves of branches and roots to assist 
their ascent, and contending at once with the disadvantages 
of the ground and the fire of the enemy. At length they 
got so high on the ascent, that several of them possessed 
an opportunity of firing into the barricade against the de- 
fenders, who then lay exposed to their aim, and Burley, 
profiting by the confusion of the moment, moved for- 
ward to the attack in front. His onset was made with 
the same desperation and fury as before, and met with less 
resistance, the defenders being alarmed at the progress 
which the sharp-shooters had made in turning the flank 
of their position. Determined to improve his advantage, 
Burley, with his axe in his hand, pursued the party whom 
he had dislodged even to the third and last barricade, and 
entered it along with them. 

“ Kill, kill — down with the enemies of God and his 
people ! — No quarter — The Castle is ours !’’ were the 
cries by which he animated his friends ; the most un- 
daunted of whom followed him close, whilst the others, 
with axes, spades, and other implements, threw up earth, 
cut down trees, hastily labouring to establish such a de- 
fensive cover in the rear of the second barricade as might 
enable them to retain possession of it, in case the Castle 
was not carried by this coup-de-main. 


OLD MORTALITY. 


119 


Lord Evandale could no longer restrain his impatience. 
He charged with a few soldiers who had been kept in 
reserve in the court-yard of the Castle ; and, although 
his arm was in a sling, encouraged them by voice and 
gesture, to assist their companions who were engaged with 
Burley. The combat now assumed an air of desperation. 
The narrow road was crowded with the followers of Bur- 
ley, who pressed forward to support their companions. 
The soldiers, animated by the voice and presence of Lord 
Evandale, fought with fury, their small numbers being in 
some measure compensated by their greater skill, and by 
their possessing the upper ground, which they defended 
desperately with pikes and halberds, as well as with the 
but of the carabines and their broad-swords. Those 
within the Castle endeavoured to assist their companions, 
whenever they could so level their guns as to fire upon 
the enemy without endangering their friends. The sharp- 
shooters, dispersed around, were firing incessantly on each 
object that was exposed upon the battlement. The Cas- 
tle was enveloped with smoke, and the rocks rang to the 
cries of the combatants. In the midst of this scene of 
confusion, a singular accident had nearly given the be- 
siegers possession of the fortress. 

Cuddie Headrigg, who had advanced among the marks- 
men, being well acquainted with every rock and bush in 
the vicinity of the Castle, where he had so often gather- 
ed nuts with Jenny Dennison, was enabled, by such local 
knowledge, to advance farther, and with less danger, than 
most of his companions, excepting some three or four who 
had followed him close. Now Cuddie, though a brave 
enough fellow upon the whole, was by no means fond of 
danger, either for its own sake, or for that of the glory 
which attends it. In his advance, therefore, he had not, 
as the phrase goes, taken the bull by the horns, or advanc- 
ed in front of the enemies’ fire. On the contrary, he 
had edged gradually away from the scene of action, and, 
turning his line of ascent rather to the left, had pursued it 
until it brought him under a front of the Castle different 
from that before which the parties were engaged^ and to 


120 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


which the defenders had given no attention, trusting to the 
steepness of the precipice. There was, however, on this 
point, a certain window belonging to a certain pantry, and 
communicating with a certain yew-tree, which grew out 
of a steep cleft of the rock, being the very pass through 
which Goose Gibbie was smuggled out of the Castle in 
order to carry Edith’s express to Charnwood, and which 
had probably, in its day, been used for other contraband 
purposes. Cuddie, resting upon the but of his gun, and 
looking up at this window, observed to one of his com- 
panions, — “ There’s a place I ken weel ; mony a time 1 
hae helped Jenn}'^ Dennison out o’ the winnock, forbye 
creeping in whiles mysellto get some daffin at e’en after 
the pleugh was loosed.” 

“ And what’s to hinder us to creep in just now ?” said 
the other, who was a smart, enterprizing young fellow. 

“ There’s no muckle to hinder us an that were a’,” 
answered Cuddie ; “ buc what were we to do neist 

“ We’ll tak the Castle,” cried the other ; “ here are five 
or six o’ us, and a’ the sodgers are engaged at the gate.” 

“ Come awa wi’ you, then,” said Cuddie ; “ but mind, 
deii a finger ye maun lay on Lady Margaret, or Miss 
Edith, or the auld Major, or, aboon a’, on Jenny Denni- 
son, or ony body but the sodgers — cut and quarter amang 
them, as ye like, I carena.” 

“ Ay, ay,” said the other, ‘‘ let us once in, and we will 
make our ain terms with them a’.” 

Gingerly, and as if treading upon eggs, Cuddie began 
to ascend the well-known pass, not very willingly ; for, 
besides that he was something apprehensive of the recep- 
tion he might meet with in the inside, his conscience in- 
sisted that he was making but a shabby requital for Lady 
Margaret’s former favours and protection. He got up, 
however, into the yew-tree, followed by his companions, 
one after another. The window was small, and had been 
secured by stanchions of iron ; but these had been long 
worn away by time, or forced out by the domestics to 
possess a free passage for their own occasional conven- 
ience. Entrance was therefore easy, providing there was 
no one in the pantrv, a point which Cuddie endeavoured 


OLD MORTALITY. 


121 


to discover before he made the final and perilous step. 
While his companions, therefore, were urging and threat- 
ening him behind, and he was hesitating and stretching hi.- 
neck to look into the apartment, his head became visible 
to Jenny Dennison, who had ensconced herself in said 
pantry as the safest place in which to wait the issue of the 
assault. So. soon as this object of terror caught her eye, 
site set up a hysteric scream, flew to the adjacent kitchen, 
and, in the desperate agony of fear, seized on a pot of 
kailbrose which she herself had hung on the fire before 
the combat began, having promised to Tam Halliday to 
prepare his breakfast for him. Thus burdened, she re- 
turned to the window of the pantry, and still exclaiming, 
“ Murder ! murder ! — we are a’ harried and ravished — 
the Castle’s ta’en — tak it amang ye !” — she discharged 
the whole scalding contents of the pot, accompanied with 
a dismal yell, upon the person of the unfortunate Cuddie. 
However welcome the mess might have been, if Cuddie 
and it had become acquainted in a regular manner, the 
effects, as administered by Jenny, would probably have 
cured him of soldiering forever, had he been looking up- 
wards when it was thrown upon him. But, fortunately 
for our man of war, he had taken the alarm upon Jenny’s 
first scream, and w'as in the act of looking down, expos- 
tulating with his comrades, who impeded the retreat which 
he was anxious to commence ; so that the steel cap and 
buff coat which formerly belonged to Sergeant Bothwell, 
being garments of an excellent endurance, protected his 
person against the greater part of the scalding brose. 
Enough, however, reached him to annoy him severely, so 
that in the pain and surprise he jumped hastily out of the 
tree, oversetting his followers, to the manifest danger of 
their limbs, and, without listening to arguments, entreaties, 
or authority, made the best of his way by the most safe 
road to the main body of the army whereunto he belong- 
ed, and could neither by threats nor persuasion be pre- 
vailed noon to return to the attack. 

11 VOL. II. 


122 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


As for Jenny, when she had thus conferred upon one ad- 
mirer’s outward man the viands which her fair hands had so 
lately been in the act of preparing for the stomach of anoth- 
er, she continued her song of alarm, running a screaming 
division upon all those crimes, which the lawyers call the 
four pleas of the crown, namely, murder, fire, rape, and 
robbery. These hideous exclamations gave so much alarm, 
and created such confusion within the Castle, that Major 
Bellenden and Lord Evandale judged it best to draw off 
from the conflict without the gates, and, abandoning to the 
enemy all the exterior defences of the avenue, confine 
themselves to the Castle itself, for fear of its being surprised 
on some unguarded point. Their retreat was unmolested ; 
for the panic of Cuddie and his companions had occasioned 
nearly as much confusion on the side of the besiegers, as 
the screams of Jenny had caused to the defenders. 

There was no attempt on either side to renew the ac- 
tion that day. The insurgents had sulfered most severe- 
ly ; and, from the difficulty which they had experienced 
in carrying the barricadoed positions without the pre- 
cincts of the Castle, they could have but little hope of 
storming the place itself. On the other hand, the situation 
of the beseiged was dispiriting and gloomy. In the skir- 
mishing they had lost two or three men, and had several 
wounded ; and though their loss was in proportion greatly 
less than that of the enemy, who had left twenty men 
dead on the place, yet their small number could much 
worse spare it, while the desperate attacks of the oppo- 
site party plainly showed how serious the leaders were in 
the purpose of reducing the place, and how well second- 
ed by the zeal of their followers. But, especially, the 
garrison had to fear for hunger, in case blockade should 
be resorted to as the means of reducing them. The 
Major’s directions had been imperfectly obeyed in regard 
to laying in provisions ; and the dragoons, in -spite of all 
warning and authority, were likely to be wasteful in using 
them. It was, therefore, with a heavy heart, that Major 
Bellenden gave directions for guarding the window 


OLD MORTALITY. 


123 


through which the Castle had so nearly been surprised, 
as well as all others which offered the most remote facility 
for such an enterprize. 


CHAPTER XIIL 

———The King hath drawn 

The special head of all the laud together. 

Henry IV. Part IT. 

The leaders of the presbyterian army had a serious 
consultation upon the evening of the day in which they 
had made the attack on Tillietudlem. They could not 
but observe that their followers were disheartened by the 
loss w'hich they had sustained, and which, as usual in such 
cases, had fallen upon the bravest and most forward. It 
was to be feared, that if they were suffered to exhaust 
their zeal and efforts in an object so secondary as the cap- 
ture of this petty fort, their numbers would melt away by 
degrees, and they would lose all the advantages arising 
out of the present unprepared state of the government. 
Moved by these arguments, it was agreed that the main 
body of the army should march against Glasgow, and dis- 
lodge the soldiers who were lying in that town. The 
council nominated Henry Morton, with others, to this last 
service, and appointed Burley to the command of a cho- 
sen body of five hundred men, who w^ere to remain be- 
hind, for’the purpose of blockading the Tower of Tillie- 
tudlem. Morton testified the greatest repugnance to this 
arrangement. 

“ He had the strongest personal motives,” he said, “ for 
desiring to remain near Tillietudlem ; and if the manage- 
ment of the siege were committed to him, he had little 
doubt but that he would bring it to sucn an accommoda- 
tion as, without being rigorous to the besieged, would fully 
answer the purpose of the besiegers.” 


124 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


Burley readily guessed the cause of his young col 
league’s reluctance to move with the army ; for, interest- 
ed as he was in appreciating the characters with whom he 
had to deal, he had contrived, through the simplicity of 
Cuddie, and the enthusiasm of old Mause, to get much 
information concerning Morton’s relations with the family 
of Tillietudlem. He therefore took the advantage of 
Poundtext’s arising to speak to business, as he said, for 
some short space of time, (which Burley rightly inter- 
preted to mean an hour at the very least,) and seized that 
moment to withdraw Morton from the hearing of their 
colleagues, and to hold the following argument with him : 

Thou art unwise, Henry Morton, to desire to sacri- 
fice this holy cause to thy friendship for an uncircumcised 
Philistine, or thy lust for a Moabitish woman.” 

“ I neither understand your meaning, Mr. Balfour, nor 
relish your allusions,” replied Morton, indignantly ; “ and 
I know no reason you have to bring so gross a charge, or 
to use such uncivil language.” 

“ Confess, however, the truth,” said Balfour, “ and own 
that there are those within yon dark Tower, over whom thou 
wouldst rather be watching like a mother over her little 
ones, than thou wouldst bear the banner of the Church 
of Scotland over the necks of her enemies.” 

“ If you mean that I would willingly terminate this 
war without any bloody victory, and that I am more anx- 
ious to do this than to acquire any personal fame or power, 
you may be,” replied Morton, “ perfectly right.” 

“ And not wholly wrong,” answered Burley, “ in 
deeming that thou w’ouldst not exclude from so general a 
pacification thy friends in the garrison of Tillietudlem. 

“ Certainly,” replied Morton ; “lam too much oblig- 
ed to Major Bellenden not to wish to be of service to 
him as far as the interest of the cause I have espoused 
will permit. I never made a secret of my regard for him.’ 

“ I am aware of that,” said Burley ; “ but, if thou 
hadst concealed it, I should, nevertheless, have found out 
thy riddle. Now, hearken to my words. This Miles 
Bellenden hath means to subsist his garrison for a month. 


OLD MORTALITY. 


125 


‘ This is not the case,” answered Morton ; “ we know 
his stores are hardly equal to a week’s consumption.” 

“ Ay, but,” continued Burley, “ I have since had 
proof, of the strongest najture, that such a report was 
spread in the garrison by that wily and grey-headed ma- 
lignant, partly to prevail on the soldiers to submit to a di- 
minution of their daily food, partly to detain us before 
the walls of his fortress until the sword should be whetted 
to smite and destroy us.” 

“ And why was not the evidence of this laid before 
the council of war *?” said Morton. 

“ To what purpose *?” said Balfour. “ Why need 
we undeceive Kettledrummle, Macbriar, Poundtext, and 
Langcale, upon such a point 9 Thyself must own, that 
whatever is told to them escapes to the host out of the 
mouth of the preachers at their next holding-forth. They 
are already discouraged by the thoughts of lying before 
the fort a week. What would be the consequence were 
they ordered to prepare for the leaguer of a month .^” 

“ But why conceal it, then, from me 9 or why tell it 
me, now And, above all, what proofs have you got of 
the fact continued Morton. 

“ There are many proofs,” replied Burley ; and he 
put into his hands a number of requisitions sent forth by 
Major Bellenden, with receipts on the back to various 
proprietors, for cattle, corn, meal, Sic., to such an amount, 
that the sum total seemed to exclude the possibility of 
the garrison being soon distressed for provisions. But 
Burley did not inform Morton of a fact which he himself 
knew full well, namely, that most of these provisions never 
reached the garrison, owing to the rapacity of the dra- 
goons sent to collect them, who readily sold to one man 
what they took from another, and abused the Major’s 
press for stores, pretty much as Sir John FalstafF did 
that of the King for men. 

“ And now,” continued Balfour, observing that he 
had made the desired impression, “ 1 have only to say, 
that I concealed this from thee no longer than it was 

11* VOL. II. 


]26 


TALES OE MY LANDLORD. 


concealed from myself, for I have only received these 
papers this morning ; and I tell it unto thee now, that 
tliou mayest go on thy way rejoicing, and work the great 
work willingly at Glasgow, being assured that no evil can 
befall thy friends in the malignant party, since their fort 
is abundantly victualled, and I possess not numbers suffi- 
cient to do more against them, than to prevent their sal- 
lying forth.” 

“ And why,” continued Morton, who felt an inexpres- 
sible reluctance to acquiesce in Balfour’s reasoning — 
“ why not permit me to remain in the command of this 
smaller party, and march forw^ard yourself to Glasgow ? 
It is the more honourable charge.” 

“ And, therefore, young man,” answered Burley, 
“ have I laboured that it should be committed to the son 
of Silas Morton. I am waxing old, and this grey head 
has had enough of honour where it could be gathered by 
danger. I speak not of the frothy bubble which men 
call earthly fame, but the honour belonging to him that 
doth not the work negligently. But thy career is yet to 
run. Thou hast to vindicate the high trust which has 
been bestowed on thee through my assurance that it was 
dearly well-merited. At Loudon-hill thou wert a cap- 
tive, and at the last assault it was thy part to fight under 
cover, whilst I led the more open and dangerous attack ; 
and, shouldst thou now remain before these walls when 
there is active service elsewhere, trust me, that men will 
say, that the son of Silas Morton hath fallen away from 
the paths of his father.” 

Stung by this last observation, to which, as a gentle- 
man and soldier, he could offer no suitable reply, Morton 
hastily acquiesced in the proposed arrangement. Yet he 
was unable to divest himself of certain feelings of distrust 
which he involuntarily attached to the quarter from which 
he received this information. 

“ Mr. Balfour,” he said, let us distinctly understand 
each other. You have thought it worth your while to 
bestow particular attention upon my private affairs and 
personal attachments ; be so good as to understand that 


OLD MODTALITY. 


127 


I am as constant to them as to my political principles. 
It is possible, that during my absence, you may possess 
the power of soothing or of wounding those feelings. 
Be assured, that whatever may be the consequences to 
the issue of our present adventure, my eternal gratitude, 
or my persevering resentment, will attend the line of 
conduct you may adopt on such an occasion ; and, how- 
ever young and inexperienced I am, I have no doubt of 
finding friends to assist me in expressing my sentiments 
in either case.” 

‘‘ If there be a threat implied in that denunciation,” 
replied Burley, coldly and haughtily, “ it had better 
have been spared. 1 know how to value the regard of 
my friends, and despise, from my soul, the threats of my 
enemies. But I will not lake occasion of offence. 
Wliatever happens here in your absence, shall be man- 
aged with as much deference to your wishes as the duly 
1 owe to a higher power can possibly permit.” 

With this qualified promise Morton was obliged to rest 
satisfied. 

“ Our defeat wall relieve the garrison,” said he, inter- 
nally, “ ere they can be reduced to surrender at discre- 
tion ; and, in case of victory, I already see, from the 
numbers of the moderate party, that I shall have a voice 
as powerful as Burley’s in determining the use which 
shall be made of it.” 

He therefore followed Balfour to the council, where 
they found Poundtext adding to his lastly, a few words 
of practical application. When these were expend- 
ed, Morton testified his willingness to accompany the 
main body of the army, which was destined to drive the 
regular troops from Glasgow. His companions in com- 
mand were named, and the whole received a strengthen- 
ing exhortation from the preachers who were present. 
Next morning, at break of day, the insurgent army broke 
up from their encampment, and marched towards Glas- 

It is not our intention to detail at length incidents which 
may be found in the history of the period. It is sufR- 


128 


TALES or MY LANDLORD. 


c^ent to say, that Claverhoiise and Lord Ross, learning 
tne superior force which was directed against them, en- 
trenched, or rather barricadoed themselves, in the centre 
of the city, where the town-house and old jail were situ- 
ated, with the determination to stand the assault of the 
insurgents rather than to abandon the capital of the west 
of Scotland. The presbyterians made their attack in 
two bodies, one of which penetrated into the city in the 
line of the College and cathedral church, while the other 
marched up the Gallowgate, or principal access from the 
south-east. Both divisions were led by men of resolu- 
tion, and behaved with great spirit. But the advantages 
of military skill and situation were too great for their un- 
disciplined valour. Ross and Claverhouse had carefully 
disposed parties of their soldiers in houses, at the heads 
of the streets, and in the entrances of closes, as they are 
called, or lanes, besides those who were entrenched be- 
hind breast-works which reached across the streets. The 
assailants found their ranks thinned by a 6re from invisi- 
ble opponents, which they had no means of returning 
with effect. It was in vain' that Morton and other leaders 
exposed their persons with the utmost gallantry, and en- 
deavoured to bring their antagonists to a close action ; 
their followers shrunk from them in every direction. 
And yet, though Henry Morton was one of the very last 
to retire, and exerted himself in bringing up the rear, 
maintaining order in the retreat, and checking every at- 
tejnpt which the enemy made to improve the advantage 
they had gained by the repulse, he had still the mortifi- 
cation to hear many of those in his ranks muttering to 
each other, that this came of trusting to latitudinarian 
boys ; and that, had honest, faithful Burley led the at- 
tack, as he did that of the barricades of Tillietudlem, 
the issue would have been as different as might be. It 
was with burning resentment that Morton heard these 
reflections thrown out by the very men who had soonest 
exhiuiled signs of discouragement. The unjust reproach, 
however, had the effect of firing his emulation, and mak- 
ing him sensible that, engaged as he was in a perilous 


OLD MORTALITY. 


129 


cause, it was absolutely necessary that he should conquei 
or die. • « 

“ I have no retreat,” he said to himself. “ All shall 
allow — even Major Bellenden — even Edith — that in 
coLfrage at least, the rebel Morton was not inferior to his 
father.” 

The condition of the army after the repulse was so 
undisciplined, and in such disorganization, that the leaders 
bought it prudent to draw off some miles from the city 
tO gain time for reducing them once more into such order 
as they were capable of adopting. Recruits, in the mean- 
while, came fast in, more moved by the extreme hard-, 
ships of their own condition, and encouraged by the ad- 
vantage obtained at Loudon-hill, than deterred by the 
last unfortunate enterprize. Many of these attached 
themselves particularly to Morton’s division. He had, 
however, the mortification to see, that his unpopularity 
among the more intolerant part of the Covenanters in- 
creased rapidly. The prudence, beyond his years, which 
he exhibited in improving the discipline and arrangement 
of his followers, they termed a trusting in the arm of 
flesh, and his avowed tolerance for those of religious sen- 
timents and observances different from his own, obtained 
him, most unjustly, the nickname of Gallio, who cared 
for none of those things. What was worse than these 
misconceptions, the mob of the insurgents, always loud- 
est in the applause of those who push political or religious 
opinions to extremity, and disgusted with such as endea- 
vour to reduce them to the yoke of discipline, preferred 
avowedly the more zealous leaders, in whose ranks en- 
thusiasm in the cause supplied the want of good order 
and military subjection, to the restraints which Morton 
endeavoured to bring them under. In short, while bear- 
ing the principal burden of command, (for his colleagues 
willingly relinquished in his favjur every thing that was 
troublesome and obnoxious in the office of general,) 
Morton found himself without that authority which alone 
could render his regulations effectual.^ 


130 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


Yel, notwithstanding these obstacles, he had, during 
the coufse of a few days, laboured so hard to introduce 
some degree of discipline into the army, that he thought 
he might hazard a second attack upon Glasgow with every 
prospect of success. 

It cannot be doubted that Morton’s anxiety to measure 
himself with Colonel Grahame of Claverhouse, at whose 
hands he had sustained such injury, had its share in giv- 
ing motive to his uncommon exertions. But Claver- 
house disappointed his hopes ; for, satisfied with having 
the advantage in repulsing the first attack upon Glasgow, 
•he determined that he would not, with the handful o/ 
troops under his command, await a secona assault from 
the insurgents with more numerous and better disciplined 
forces than had supported their first enterprize. He 
therefore evacuated the place, and marched at the head 
of his troops towards Edinburgh. The insurgents of 
course entered Glasgow without resistance, and without 
Morton having the opportunity, which he so deeply cov- 
eted, of again encountering Claverhouse personally. 
But, although he had not an opportunity of wiping away 
the disgrace which had befallen his division of the army 
of the Covenant, the retreat of Claverhouse, and the 
possession of Glasgow, tended greatly to animate the in- 
surgent army, and to increase its numbers. The necessity 
of appointing new officers, of organizing new regiments 
and squadrons, of making them acquainted with at least 
the most necessary points of military discipline, were la- 
bours, which, by universal consent, seemed to be devolv- 
ed upon Henry Morton, and which he the more readily 
undertook, because his father had made him acquainted 
with the theory of the military art, and because he plain- 
ly saw, that, unless he took this ungracious but absolutely 
necessary labour, it was vain to expect any other to engage 
in it. 

In the meanwhile, fortune appeared to favour the en- 
terprize of the insurgents more than the most sanguine 
durst have expected. The Privy Council of Scotland, 
astonished at the extent of resistance which their arbitra- 


OLD MOIITALITV. 


ir> 


ry measures had provoked, seemed stupified with terror, 
and incapable of taking active steps to subdue the resent- 
ment which these measures had excited. There were 
but very few troops in Scotland, and these they drew 
towards Edinburgh, as if to form an army for protection 
of the metropolis. The feudal array of the crown vas- 
sals in the various counties was ordered to take the field, 
and render to the King the military service due for their 
fiels. But the summons was very slackly obeyed. The 
quarrel was not generally popular among the gentry; and 
even those who were not unwilling themselves to have 
taken arms, were deterred by the repugnance of their 
wives, mothers, and sisters, to their engaging in such a 
cause. Meanwhile, the inadequacy of the Scottish gov- 
ernment to provide for their own defence, or to put down 
a rebellion of which the commencement seemed so trifling, 
excited at the English court doubts at once of their ca- 
pacity, and of the prudence of the severities they had 
exerted against the oppressed presbyterians. It w^as, 
therefore, resolved to nominate to the command of the 
army of Scotland, the unfortunate Duke of Monmouth, 
who had by marriage a great interest, large estate, and 
a numerous following, as it was called, in the southern 
parts of that kingdom. The military skill which he had 
displayed on different occasions abroad, was supposed 
more than adequate to subdue the insurgents in the field; 
while it was expected that his mild temper, and the fa- 
vourable disposition which he showed to presbyterians in 
general, might soften men’s minds, and tend to reconcile 
them to the government. The Duke was, therefore, in- 
vested with a commission, containing high powers for 
settling the distracted affairs of Scotland, and despatched 
from London with strong succours to take the principal 
military command in that country. 


132 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

1 am bound to Bothwell-hill, 

Where I maun either do or die. 

Old Ballad. 

There was now a pause in the military movements or. 
both sides. The government seemed contented to pre- 
vent the rebels advancing towards the capital, while the 
msurgents were intent upon augmenting and strengthening 
their forces. For this purpose, they established a sort 
of encampment in the park belonging to the ducal resi- 
dence at Hamilton, a centrical situation for receiving their 
recruits, and where they were secured from any sudden 
attack, by having .the Clyde, a deep and rapid river, in 
front of their position, which is only passable by a long 
and narrow bridge near the castle and village of Bothwell. 

Morton remained here for about a fortnight after the 
attack on Glasgow, actively engaged in his military du- 
ties. He had received more than one communication 
from Burley, but they only stated in general, that the 
Castle of Tillietudlem continued to hold out. Impatient 
of suspense upon this most interesting subject, he at 
length, intimated to his colleagues in command his desire, 
or rather his intention — for he saw no reason why he should 
not assume a license which was taken by every one else 
in this disordered army, — to go to Milnwood for a day or two 
to arrange some private affairs of consequence. The propo- 
sal was by no means approved of ; for the military counci 
of the insurgents were sufficiently sensible of the value of hi 
services to fear to lose them, and felt somewhat conscious 
of their own inability to supply his place. They could not, 
however, pretend to dictate to him laws more rigid than they 
submitted to themselves, and he was suffered to depart on 
his journey without any direct objection being stated. 
The Reverend Mr. Poundtext took the same opportunity 
to pay a visit to his own residence in the neighbourhood 


OLD MORTALITY. 


133 


of Mill! wood, and favoured Morton with his company on 
the journey. As the country was chiefly friendly to 
their cause, and in possession of their detached par- 
ties, excepting here and there the strong-hold of some 
old cavalie'ring baron, they travelled without any other 
attendant than the faithful Cuddie. 

It was near sunset when they reached Milnwood, where 
Poundtext bid adieu to his companions, and travelled 
forward alone to his own manse, which was situated halt 
a mile’s march beyond Tillietudlem. When Morton was 
left alone to his own reflections, with what a complication 
of feelings did he review the woods, banks, and fields, 
that had been familiar to him ! His character, as well as 
his habits, thoughts^ and occupations, had been entirely 
changed within the space of little more than a fortnight, 
and twenty days seemed to have done upon him the work 
of as many years. A mild, romantic, gentle-tempered 
youth, bred up in dependence, and stooping patiently to 
the control of a sordid and tyrannical relation, had sud- 
denly, by the rod of oppression and the spur of injured 
feeling, been compelled to stand forth a leader of armed 
men, was earnestly engaged in affairs of a public nature, 
had friends to animate and enemies to contend with, and 
felt his individual fate bound up in that of a national insur- 
rection and revolution. It seemed as if he had at once 
experienced a transition from the romantic dreams of 
youth to the labours and cares of active manhood. All 
that had formerly interested him was obliterated from his 
memory, excepting only his attachment tq Edith ; and 
even his love seemed to have assumed a character more 
manly and disinterested, as it had become mingled and 
contrasted with other duties and feelings. As he revolv- 
ed the particulars of this sudden change, the circumstan- 
ces in which it originated, and the possible consequences 
of his present career, the thrill of natural anxiety which 
passed along his mind, was immediately banished by a 
glow of generous and high-spirited confidence. 

“ I shall fall young,” he said, “ if fall 1 must, my mo- 
12 voi.. It. 


134 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


tives misconstrued, and my actions condemned, by those 
whose approbation is dearest to me. But the sword of 
liberty and patriotism is in my hand, and I will neither 
fall meanly nor unavenged. They may expose my body 
and gibbet my limbs ; but other days will come when 
the sentence of infamy will recoil against those who may 
pronounce it. And that Heaven, whose name is so often 
profaned during this unnatural war, will bear witness to 
the purity of the motives by which I have been guided.” 

Upon approaching Milnwood, Henry’s knock upon the 
gate no longer intimated the conscious timidity of a strip- 
ling who has been out of bounds, but the confidence of a 
man in full possession of his own rights, and master of 
h’s own actions — bold, free, and decided. The door was 
cautiously opened by his old acquaintance, Mrs. Alison 
Wilson, who started back when she saw the steel cap ^ 
and nodding plume of the martial visiter. 

“ Where is my uncle, Alison 9” said Morton, smiling 
at her alarm. 

“ Lordsake, Mr. Harry ! is this you returned the 
old lady. “ In troth, ye garr’d my heart loup to my very 
mouth — But it canna be your ainsell, for ye look taller 
and mair manly-like than ye used to do.” 

“ It is, however, my own self,” said Henry, sighing 
and smiling at the same time ; “ I believe this dress may 
make me look taller, and these times, Ailie, make men 
out of boys.” 

“ Sad times, indeed!” echoed the old woman ; ‘‘ and 
O that you suld be endangered wi’ them ! but wha can 
help it 9 — ye were ill eneugh guided, and, as I tell your 
uncle, if ye tread on a worm it will turn.” 

“ You were always my advocate, Ailie,” said he, and 
the housekeeper no longer resented the familiar epithet, 

“ and would let no one blame me but yourself, I am aware 
of that. — Where is my uncle ?” 

“ In Edinburgh,” replied Alison ; “ the honest man 
thought it was best to gang and sit by the chimley when 
the reek rase — a vex’d man he’s been and a fear’d — but 
ve ken the laird as weel as I do.” 


OLD MORTALITY. 


185 


‘‘ I hope he has suffered nothing in health said 
Henry. 

“ Naething to speak of,” answered the housekeeper, 

nor in gudes neither — we fended as weel as we could ; 
and,' though the troopers of Tillietudlem took the red 
cow and auld Hackie, (ye’ll mind them weel,) yet they 
sauld us a gude bargain of four they were driving to the 
C-astle.” 

“ Sold you a bargain said Morton ; “ how do you 
mean 9” 

“ Ou, they cam out to gather marts for the garrison,” 
answered the housekeeper ; “ but they just fell to their 
auld trade, and rade through the country couping and 
selling a’ that they gat, like sae mony west-country drov- 
ers. My certie. Major Bellenden was laird o’ the least 
share o’ what they lifted, though it was ta’en in his name.” 

“ Then,” said Morton, hastily, “ the garrison must be 
straitened for provisions ?” 

‘‘ Stressed eneugh,” replied Ailie — there’s little doubt 
o’ that.” 

A light instantly glanced on Morton’s mind. 

“ Burley must have deceived me — craft as well as 
cruelty is permitted by his creed.” Such was his inward 
thought ; he said aloud, “ I cannot stay, Mrs. Wilson, 1 
must go forward directly.” 

“ But, oh ! bide to eat a moulhfu’,” entreated the 
affectionate housekeeper, “ and I’ll mak it ready for you 
as I used to do afore thae sad days.” 

‘‘ It is impossible,” answered Morton. — “ Cuddie, get 
our horses ready.” 

“ They’re just eating their corn,” answered the at- 
tendant. 

‘‘ Cuddie !” exclaimed Ailie ; “ What garr’d ye bring 
that ill-faur’d, unlucky loon alang wi’ ye 9 — It was him 
and his randie mother began a’ the mischief in this house.” 

“ Tut, tut,” replied Cuddie, “ ye should forget and 
forgie, mistress. Mither’s in Glasgow wi’ her tittie, and 
gall plague ye nae mair ; and I’m the Captain’s wallie 
now, and I keep him tighter in thack and rape than ever 


136 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


“ In troth and that’s true,” said the old housekeeper, 
looking with great complacency at her young master, 
whose mien she thought much improved by his dress. 
“ I’m sure ye ne’er had a laced cravat like that when ye 
were at Milnwood ; that’s nane o’ my sewing.” 

“ Na, na, mistress,” replied Cuddie, “ that’s a cast o’ 
my hand— that’s ane o’ Lord Evandale’s braws.” 

“ Lord Evandale answered the old lady, ‘‘ that’s 
him that the whigs are gaun to hang the morn, as I hear 
say.” 

“ The whigs about to hang Lord Evandale 9” said 
Morton, in the greatest surprise. 

“ Ay, troth are they,” said the housekeeper. “ Yes- 
terday night he made a sally, as they ca’t, (my mother’s 
name was Sally — I wonder they gie Christian folks 
names to sic unchristian doings) — but he made an out- 
break to get provisions, and his men were driven back 
and he was taen, an’ the whig Captain Balfour garr’d set 
up a gallows, and swore, (or said upon his conscience, 
for they winna swear,) that, if the garrison was not gien 
ower the morn by daybreak, he would hing up the young 
lord, poor thing, as high as Haman. — These are sair 
times ! — but folk canna help them — sae do ye sit down 
and tak bread and cheese until better meat’s made ready. 
Ye suldna hae kend a word about it, an I had thought 
it was to spoil your dinner, hinny.” 

“ Fed, or unfed,” exclaimed Morton, “ saddle the 
horses instantly, Cuddie. We must not rest until we get 
before the Castle.” 

And, resisting all Ailie’s entreaties, they instantly re- 
sumed their journey. 

Morton bailed not to halt at the dwelling of Poundtext, 
and summon him to attend him to the camp. That hon- 
est divine had just resumed for an instant his pacific hab- 
its, and was perusing an ancient theological treatise, with 
a pipe in his mouth, and a small jug of ale beside him, 
to assist his digestion of the argument. It was with bit- 
ter ill-will that he relinquished these comforts (which he 
called his studies) in order to recommence a hard ride 
upon a high-trotting ho’" 5 P However, when he knew 


OLD MORTALITY. 


137 


ibe matter in hand, he gave up, with a deep groan, the 
prospect of spending a quiet evening in his own little 
parlour j for he entirely agreed with Morton, that what- 
ever interest Burley might have in rendering the breach 
between the presbyterians and the government irrecon- 
cilable, by putting the young nobleman to death, it was 
by no means that of the moderate party to permit such 
an act of atrocity. And it is but doing justice to Mr. 
Poundtext to add, that, like most of his own persuasion, 
he was decidedly averse to any such acts of unnecessa- 
ry violence ; besides, that his own present feelings in- 
duced him to listen with much complacence to the pro- 
bability held out by Morton, of Lord Evandale’sbeconiing 
a mediator for the establishment of peace upon fair and 
moderate terms. With this similarity of views, they 
hastened their journey^ and arrived about eleven o’clock 
at night at a small hamlet adjacent to the Castle of Tillie- 
tudlem, where Burley had established his head-quarters. 

They were challenged by the sentinel, who made his 
melancholy walk at the entrance of the hamlet, and admit- 
ted upon declaring their names and authority in the army. 
Another soldier kept watch before a house, which they 
conjectured to be the place of Lord Evandale’s confine- 
ment, for a gibbet of such great height as to be visible 
from the battlements of the Castle, was erected before 
it, in melancholy confirmation of the truth of Mrs. Wil- 
son’s report.6 Morton instantly demanded to speak with 
Burley, and was directed to his quarters. They found 
him reading the Scriptures with his arms lying beside 
him, as if ready for any sudden alarm. He started upon 
the entrance of his colleagues in office. 

“ What has brought ye hither 9” said Burley, hasti- 
ly. ‘‘ Is there bad news from tbe army 

“ No,” replied Morton ; “ but we understand that 
there are measures adopted here in which the safety of 
the army is deeply concerned — Lord Evandale is your 
prisoner 9” 

12 * VOL. II. 


138 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


“ The Lord,” replied Burley, “ hath delivered him 
into our hands.” 

“ And you will avail yourself of that advantage, granted 
you by Heaven, to dishonour our cause in the eyes of all 
the world, by putting a prisoner to an ignominious death 

“ If the house of Tillietudlem be not surrendered by 
daybreak,” replied Burley, “ God do so to me and 
more also, if he shall not die that death to which his 
leader and patron, John Grahame of Claverhouse, hath 
put so many of God’s saints.” 

“ We are in arms,” replied Morton, ‘‘ to put down 
such cruelties, and not to imitate them, far less to avenge 
upon the innocent the acts of the guilty. By what law 
can you justify the atrocity you would commit 9” 

“ If thou art ignorant of it,” replied Burley, “ thy 
companion is well aware of the law which gave the men 
of Jericho to the sword of Joshua, the son of Nun.” 

“ But we,” answered the divine, “ live under a better 
dispensation, which instructeth us to return good for evil, 
and to pray for those who despitefully use us and perse- 
cute us.” 

“ That is to say,” said Burley, “ that thou wilt join 
thy grey hairs to his green youth to controvert me in this 
matter 

“.We are,” rejoined Poundtext, “ two of those to 
whom, jointly with thyself, authority is delegated over this 
host, and we will not permit thee to hurt a hair of the 
prisoner’s head. It may please God to make him a 
means of healing these unhappy breaches in our Israel'.” 

“ I judged it would come to this,” answered Burley, 
“ when such as thou wert called into the council of the 
elders.” 

“ Such as 1 9” answered Poundtext, — “ And who am 
I that you should name me with such scorn 9 — Have 1 
not kept the flock of this sheep-fold from the wolves for 
thirty years 9 Ay, even while thou, John Balfour, wert 
fighting in the ranks of uncircumcision, a Philistine of 
hardened brow and bloody hand — Who am I, savest 
thou 9” 


OLD MORTALITY. 


139 


I will tell thee what thou art, since thou woiildst so 
fain know,” said Burley. “ Thou art one of those who 
would reap where thou hast not sowed, and divide the 
spoil while others fight the battle — thou art one of those 
that follow the gospel for the loaves and for the fishes — 
that love their own manse better than the church of God, 
and that would rather draw their stipends under prelatists 
or heathens, than be a partaker with those noble spirits 
who have cast all behind them for the sake of the Cov- 
enant.” 

“ And I will tell thee, John Balfour,” returned Pound- 
text, deservedly incensed, “ I will tell thee what thou 
art. Thou art one of those for whose bloody and mer- 
ciless disposition a reproach is flung upon the whole church 
of this suffering kingdom, and for whose violence and 
blood-guiltiness, it is to be feared, this fair attempt to re- 
cover our civil and religious rights will never be honoured 
by Providence with the desired success.” 

“ Gentlemen,” said Morton, “ cease this irritating and 
unavailing recrimination ; and do you, Mr. Balfour, in- 
form us, whether it is your purpose to oppose the libera- 
tion of Lord Evandale, which appears to us a profitable 
measure in the present position of our affairs ?” 

“ You are here,” answered Burley, “ as two voices 
against one ; but you will not refuse to tarry until the 
united council shall decide upon this matter *?” 

“ This,” said Morton, “ we would not decline, if we 
could trust the hands in whom we are to leave the pris- 
oner. — But you know well,” he added, looking sternly 
at Burley, “ that you have already deceived me in this 
matter.” 

‘‘ Go to,” said Burley, disdaiifully, — ‘‘ thou art an 
idle inconsiderate boy, who, for the black eyebiows of 
a silly girl, would barter thy own faith ana honour, and 
the cause of God and of thy country.” 

“ Mr. Balfour,” said Morton, laying his hand on his 
sword, “ this language requires satisfaction.” 


140 TALES or MY LANDLORD. 

“ And thou shall have it, stripling, when and where 
thou darest,” said Burley, “ I plight thee my good word 
on it.” 

Poundtext, in his turn, interfered, to remind them of 
the madness of quarrelling, and effected with difficulty a 
sort of sullen reconciliation. 

“ Concerning the prisoner,” said Burley, “ deal with 
him as ye think fit. J wash my hands free from all con- 
sequences. He is my prisoner, made by my sword and 
spear, while you, Mr. Morton, were playing the adjutant 
at drills and parades, and you, Mr. Poundtext, were 
warping the Scriptures into Erastianism. Take him un- 
to you, nevertheless, and dispose of him as ye think 
meet. — Dingwall,” he continued, calling a sort of aid- 
de-camp, who slept in the next apaftmenl, “ let the guard 
posted on the malignant Evandale give up their post to 
those whom Captain Morton shall appoint to relieve them. 
The prisoner,” he said, again addressing Poundtext and 
Morion, “ is now at your disposal, gentlemen. But re- 
member, that for all these things there will one day come 
a term of heavy accounting.” 

So saying, he turned abruptly into an inner apartment, 
without bidding them good evening. His two visiters, after 
a moment’s consideration, agreed it would be prudent to 
insure the prisoner’s personal safety, by placing over him 
an additional guard, chosen from their own parishioners. 
A band of them happened to be stationed in a hamlet, 
having been attached, for the time, to Burley’s command, 
in order that the men might be gratified by remaining as 
long as possible near to their own homes. They were, 
in general, smart, active young fellows, and were usually 
called, by their comjfmions, the Marksmen of Milnwood. 
By Morton’s desire, four of these lads readily undertook 
the task of sentinels, and he left with them Headrigg, on 
whose fidelity he could depend, with instructions to call 
him, if anything remarkable happened. 

This arrangement being made, Morton and his col- 
feage took possession, for the night, of such quarters as 
the over-crowded and miserable hamlet could afford 


OLD MORTALITY. 141 

them. They did not, however, separate for repose till 
they had drawn up a memorial of the grievances of the 
moderate Presbyterians, which was summed up with a 
request of free toleration for their religion in future, and 
that they should be permitted to attend gospel ordinances 
as dispensed by their own clergymen, without oppression 
or molestation. Their petition proceeded to require that 
a free parliament should be called for settling the affairs 
of church and state, and for redressing the injuries sus- 
tained by the subject ; and that all those who either now 
were, or had been in arms, for obtaining these ends, 
should be indemnified. Morton could not but strongly 
hope that these terms, which comprehended all that was 
wanted, or wished for, by the moderate party among the 
insurgents, might, when thus cleared of the violence of 
fanaticism, find advocates even among the royalists, as 
claiming only the ordinary rights of Scottish freemen. 

He had the more confidence of a favourable recep- 
tion, that the Duke of Monmouth, to whom Charles had 
intrusted the charge of subduing this rebellion, was a 
man of gentle, moderate, and accessible disposition, well 
known to be favourable to the presbyterians, and invested 
by the King with full powers to take measures for quiet- 
ing the disturbances in ‘Scotland. It seemed to Morton, 
that all that was necessary for influencing him in their fa- 
vour was to find a fit and sufficiently respectable chan- 
nel of -communication, and such seemed to be opened 
through the medium of Lord Evandale. He resolved, 
therefore, to visit the prisoner early in the morning, in 
order to sound his dispositions to undertake the task of 
mediator ; but an accident happened which led him to 
anticipate his purpose. \ 


142 


TALES OF MY LANDLOKD. 


CHAPTER XV. 

Gie ower your house, lady, he said,-— 

Gie ower your house to me. 

Edom of Gordon. 

Morton had finished the revisal andthemakingoutofa 
fair copy of the paper on which he and Poundtext had 
agreed to rest as a full statement of the grievances of 
their party, and the conditions on which the greater part 
of the insurgents would be contented to lay down their 
arms ; and he was about to betake himself to repose 
when there was a knocking at the door of his apartment. 

“ Enter,” said Morton ; and the round bullet-head of 
Cuddie Headrigg was thrust into the room. “ Come 
in,” said Morton, “ and tell me what you want. Is there 
any alarm 9” 

“ Na, stir ; but I hae brought ane to speak wi’ you.” 

“ Who is that, Cuddie 9” inquired Morton. 

“ Ane o’ your auld acquaintance,” said Cuddie ; and . 
opening the door more fully, he half led, half dragged in 
a woman, whose face was muffled in her plaid. — “ Come, 
come, ye need na be sae basbfu’ before auld acquaint- 
ance, Jenny,” said Cuddie, pulling down the veil and 
discovering to his master the well-remembered counte 
nance of Jenny Dennison. “ Tell his honour now — 
there’s a braw lass — tell him what ye were wanting to 
say to Lord Evandale, mistress.” 

“ What was I wanting to say,” answered Jenny, “ to 
his honour himsellthe other morning, when I visited him 
in captivity, ye muckle hash ^ — D’ye think that folk dinna 
want to see their friends in adversity ye dour croudy- 
eater 

This reply was made with Jenny’s usual volubility ; 
but her voice quivered, her cheek was thin and pale, the 
tears stood in her eyes, her hand trembled, her manner 


OLD MORTALITY. 


143 


^as fluttered, and her whole presence bore marks o\ 
'•ecent suffering and privation, as well as nervous and 
hysterical agitation. 

“ What is the matter, Jenny said Morton, kindly. 
‘‘ You know how much I owe you in many respects, and 
can hardly make a request that I will not grant, if in my 
power.” 

“ Many thanks, Milnwood,” said the weeping damsel ; 
“ but ye were aye a kind gentleman, though folk say ye 
hae become sair changed now.” 

“ What do they say of me .^” answered Morton. 

“ A’ body says,” replied Jenny, “ that you and the 
whigs hae made a vow to ding King Charles aff the throne, 
and that neither he, nor his posteriors from generation to 
generation, shall sit upon it ony mair ; and John Gudyill 
threcps ye’re to gie a’ the church organs to the pipers, 
and burn the book o’ Common-prayer by the hands of 
the common-hangman, in revenge of the. Covenant that 
was burnt when the King cam hame.” 

“ My friends at Tillietudlem judge too hastily and too 
ill of me,” answered Morton. “ I wish to have free ex- 
ercise of my own religion, without insulting any other ; 
and as to your family, I only desire an opportunity to 
show them I have the same friendship and kindness as 
ever.” 

“ Bless your kind heart for saying sae,” said Jenny, 
bursting into a flood of tears ; “ and they never needed 
kindness or friendship mair, for they are famished for 
lack o’ food.” 

“ Good God !” replied Morton, “ I have heard ol 
scarcity, but not of famine ! Is it possible ? — Have the 
ladies and the Major” 

“ They hae suffered like the lave o’ us,” replied Jen- 
ny ; “ for they shared every bit and sup wi’ the whole 
folk in the Castle — I’m sure my puir een see flfty col- 
ours wi’ faintness, and ray head’s sae dizzy vvi’ the rnirli- 
goes that I canna stand my lane.” 


144 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 

The thinness of the poor girl’s cheek and the sharp- 
ness of her features bore witness to the truth of what 
she said. Morton was greatly shocked. 

“Sit down,” said he,' “for God’s sake!” forcing her 
into the only chair the apartment afforded, while he him- 
self strode up and down the room in horror and impa- 
tience. “ 1 knew not of this,” he exclaimed, in broken 
ejaculations, — “ I could not know of it. — Cold-blooded, 
ron-hearted fanatic — deceitful villain I — Cuddie, fetch 
refreshments — food — wine, if possible — whatever you 
can find.” 

“ Whisky is gude eneugh for her,” muttered Cud- 
die ; “ ane wadna hae thought that gude meal was sae 
scant arnang them, when the quean threw sae muckle 
gude kail-brose scalding het about my lugs.” 

Faint and miserable as Jenny seemed to be, she could 
not hear the allusion to her exploit during the storm of 
the Castle, without bursting into a laugh, wliich weakness 
soon converted into a hysterical giggle. Confounded at 
her state, and reflecting with horror on the distress which 
must have been in the Castle, Morton repeated his com- 
mands to Headrigg in a peremptory manner ; and when 
he had departed, endeavoured to sooth his visiter. 

“ You come, I suppose, by the orders of your mis- 
tress, to visit Lord Evandale — Tell me what she de- 
sires ; her orders shall be my law.” 

Jenny appeared to reflect a moment, and then said, 
“ Your honour is sae auld a friend, I must needs trust to 
you, and tell the truth.” 

“ Be assured, Jenny,” said Morton, observing that she 
hesitated, “ that you will best serve your mistress by 
dealing sincerely with me.” 

“ Weel, then, ye maun ken we’re starving, as I said 
before, and have been mair days than ane ; and the 
Major has sworn that he expects relief daily, and that he 
will not gie ower the house to the enemy till we have 
eaten up his auld boots, — and they are unco thick in the 
soles, as ye may weel mitid, forbye being teugh in the 
upper-leather. The dragoons, again, they think they wiU 


OID MORTALITY. 


115 


be forced to gie up at last, and they canna bide hunger 
vveel, after the life they led at free quarters for this while 
bypast ; and since Lord Evandale’s taen there’s nae 
guiding them ; and Inglis says he’ll gie up the garrison 
to the whigs, and the Major and the leddies into the bar- 
gain, if they will but let the troopers gang free them- 
selves.” 

“ Scoundrels !” said Morton ; “ why do they not 
make terms for all in the Castle 9” 

“ They are fear’d for denial o’ quarter to themsells, 
having dune sae rnuckle mischief through the country ; 
and Burley has hanged ane or twa o’ them already — sae 
they want to draw their ain necks out o’ the collar at 
hazard o’ honest folks.” 

“ And you were sent,” continued Morton, “ to carry 
to Lord Evandale the unpleasant news of the men’s 
mutiny 

“ Just e’en sae,” said Jenny ; “ Tam Ilalliday took 
the rue, and tank! me a’ about it, and gat me out o’ the Cas- 
tle to tell Lord Evandale, if possibly I could win at him.” 

“ But how can he help you said Morton ; “ he is a 
prisoner.” 

“ Well-a-day, ay,” answered the afflicted damsel ; 
“ but maybe he could mak fair terms for us — or, maybe, 
he could gie us some good advice — or, maybe, he might 
send his orders to the dragoons to be civil — or” 

“ Or, maybe,” said Morton, “ you were to try if it 
were possible to set him at liberty 

‘‘ If it were sae,” answered Jenny with spirit, “ it 
wadna be the first time I hae done my best to serve a friend 
in captivity.” 

“ True, Jenny,” replied Morton, ‘‘ I were niost un- 
grateful to forget it. But here comes Cuddle with re- 
freshments — I will go and do your errand to Lord Evan- 
dale, while you take some food and wine.” 

“ It willna be amiss ye should ken,” said Cuddle to 
his master, “ that this Jenny — this Mrs. Dennison, was 
trying to cuittle favour wi’ Tam Rand, the miller’s man 
13 VOL. II. 


146 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


to win into Lord Evandale’s room without ony body ken- 
ning. She wasna thinking, the gipsy, that I was at her 
elbow.” 

“ And an unco fright ye gae me when ye cam ahint 
and took a grip o’ me,” said Jenny, giving him a sly 
twitch with her finger and her thumb — “ if ye hadna 
been an auld acquaintance, ye daft gomeril” 

Cuddie, somewhat relenting, grinned a smile on his 
artful mistress, while Morton wrapped himself up in his 
cloak, took his sword under his arm, and went straight to 
the place of the young nobleman’s confinement. He ask- 
ed the sentinels if anything extraordinary had occurred. 

“ Nothing worth notice,” they said, “ excepting the 
lass that Cuddie took up, and two couriers that Captain 
Balfour had despatched, one to the Reverend Ephraim 
Macbriar, another to Kettledrummle, both of whom were 
beating the drum ecclesiastic in different towns between 
the position of Burley and the head-quarters of the main 
army near Hamilton.” 

“ The purpose, I presume,” said Morton, with an af- 
fectation of indifference, “ was to call them hither.” 

“ So I understand,” answered the sentinel, who had 
spoke with the messengers. 

“ He is summoning a triumphant majority of the coun- 
cil,” thought Morton to himself, “ for the purpose oi 
sanctioning whc]^tever action of atrocity he may determine 
upon, and thwarting opposition by authority. I must be 
.speedy, or 1 shall lose my opportunity.” 

When he entered the place of Lord Evandale’s con- 
finement, he found him ironed, and reclining on a flock 
bed in the wretched garret of a miserable cottage. He 
was either in a slumber, or in deep meditation, when 
Morton entered, and turned on him, when aroused, a 
countenance so much reduced by loss of blood, want of 
sleep, and scarcity of food, that no one could have re- 
cognized in it the gallant soldier who had behaved with 
so much spirit at tlie skirmish of Loudon-hill. He dis- 
played some surprise at the sudden entrance of Morton 


OI.I) MORTALITY. 


147 


“ I am sorry to see you thus, my lord,” said that 
youthful leader. 

“ 1 have heard you are an admirer of poetry,” an- 
swered the prisoner ; “ in that case, Mr. Morton, you 
may remember these lines, — 


‘ Stone walls do not a prison make, 
Or iron bars a cage ; 

A free and quiet mind can take 
These for a hermitage/ 


But were my imprisonment less endurable, I am given to 
expect to-morrow a total enfranchisement.” 

“ By death *?” said Morton. 

“ Surely,” answered Lord Evandale ; “ I have no 
other prospect. Your comrade, Burley, has already dip- 
ped his hand in the blood of men whose meanness of rank 
and obscurity of extraction might have saved them. I 
cannot boast such a shield from his vengeance, and I ex- 
pect to meet its extremity.” 

“ But Major Bellenden,” said Morton, “ may surren- 
der, in order to preserve your life.” 

“ Never, while there is one man to defend the battle- 
ment, and that man has one crust to eat. I know his 
gallant resolution, and grieved should I be if he changed 
it for my sake.” 

Morton hastened to acquaint him with the mutiny 
among the dragoons, and their resolution to surrender 
the Castle, and put the ladies of the family, as well as 
the Major, into the hands of the enemy. Lord Evan- 
dale seemed at first surprised, and something incredulous, 
but immediately afterwards deeply affected. 

“ What is to be done .^” he said — “ How is this mis- 
fortune to be averted 

“ Hear me, my lord,” said Morton. “ I believe you 
may not be unwilling to bear the olive branch between 
our master the King, and that part of his subjects which 
is now in arms, not from choice, but necessity.” 

“ You construe me but justly,” said Lord Evandale ; 
‘ but to what does this tend ?” 


148 


TALES OT MY LANDLORD. 


“ Permit me, my lord” continued Morton. I wih 

set you at liberty upon parole ; nay, you may return to the 
Castle, and shall have a safe conduct for the ladies, the Ma- 
jor, and all who leave it, on condition of its instant surren- 
der. In contributing to bring this about you will only submit 
to circumstances ; for, with a mutiny in the garrison, and 
without provisions, it will be found impossible to defend the 
place twenty-four hours longer. Those, therefore, who 
refuse to accompany your lordship must take their fate. 
You and your followers shall have a free pass to Edinburgh, 
or wnerever the Duke of Monmouth may be. In return 
for your liberty, we hope that you will recommend to the 
notice of his grace, as Lieutenant-General of Scotland, 
this humble petition and remonstrance, containing the 
grievances which have occasioned this insurrection, a re- 
dress of which being granted, I will answer, with my 
head, that the great body of the insurgents will lay down 
their arms.” 

Lord Evandale read over the paper with attention. 

“ Mr. Morton,” he said, “ in my simple judgment, I 
see little objection that can be made to the measures here 
recommended ; nay, farther, I believe in many respects, 
they may meet the private sentiments of the Duke of 
Monmouth : and yet, to deal frankly with you, I have no 
hopes of their being granted, unless, in the first place, 
you were to lay down your arms.” 

“ The doing so,” answered Morton, ‘‘ would be virtu- 
ally conceding that we had no right to take them up, and 
that, for one, I will never agree to.” 

“ Perhaps it is hardly to be expected you should,” 
said Lord Evandale ; “ and yet on that point, I am cer- 
tain the negotiations will be wrecked. I am willing, 
however, having frankly told you my opinion, to do all 
in my power to bring about a reconciliation.” 

“ It is all we can wish or expect,” replied Morton ; 
‘‘ the issue is in God’s hands, who disposes the hearts 
of princes. — You accept then the safe conduct?” 

“ Certainly,” answered Lord Evandale ; “ and if I do 
not enlarge upon the obligation incurred by your having 


OLD MORTALITY. 


149 


saved my life a second time, believe that I do not feel it 
the less.” 

“ And the garrison at Tillietudlem said Morton 
Shall be withdrawn as you propose,” answered the 
young nobleman. “ I am sensible the Major will be un- 
able to bring the mutineers to reason ; and I tremble to 
think of the consequences, should the ladies and the 
brave old man be delivered up to this blood-thirsty ruffian 
Burley.” 

“You are in that case free,” said Morton. “ Prepare 
to mount on horseback ; a few men whom I can trust 
shall attend you till you are in safety from our parties.” 

Leaving Lord Evandale in great surprise and joy at 
this unexpected deliverance, Morton hastened to get a 
few chosen men under arms and on horseback each rider 
holding the rein of a spare horse. Jenny, who, while 
she partook of her refreshment, had contrived to make 
up her breach with Cuddie, rode on the left hand of that 
valiant cavalier. The tramp of their horses was soon 
heard under the window of Lord Evandale’s prison. 
Two men whom he did not know entered the apartment, 
disencumbered him of his fetters, and, conducting him 
down stairs, mounted him in the centre of the detach- 
ment. They set out at a round trot towards Tillietudlem. 

The moonlight was giving way to the dawn when they 
approached that ancient fortress, and its dark massive 
tower had just received the first pale colouring of the 
morning. The party halted at the tower barrier, not 
venturing to approach nearer for fear of the fire of the 
place. Lord Evandale alone rode up to the gate, foL 
lowed at a distance by Jenny Dennison. As they ap- 
proached the gate, there was heard to arise in the court- 
yard a tumult which accorded ill with the quiet serenity 
of a summer dawn. Cries and oaths were heard, a pis- 
tol-shot or two were discharged, and every thing announc- 
ed that the mutiny had broken out. At this crisis Lord 
Evandale arrived at the gate where Halliday was sentinel. 
13 * VOL. II. 


150 


TALES OP MY LANDLORD. 


On hearing Lord Evandale’s voice, he instantly and gladly 
admitted him, and that nobleman arrived among the muti- 
nous troopers like a man dropped from the clouds. They 
were in the act of putting their design into execution, of 
seizing the place into their own hands, and were about to 
disarm and overpower Major Bellenden and Harrison, and 
others of the Castle, who were offering the best resistance 
in their power. 

The appearance of Lord Evandale changed the scene. 
He seized Inglis by the collar, and, upbraiding him with 
his villany, ordered two of his comrades to seize and 
bind him, assuring the others, that their only chance ol 
impunity consisted in instant submission. He then or- 
dered the men into their ranks. They obeyed. He 
commanded them to ground their arms. They hesitat- 
ed ; but tlie instinct of discipline, joined to their persua- 
sion, that the authority of their officer, so boldly exerted, 
must be supported by some forces without the gate, in- 
duced them to submit. 

“ Take away those arms,” said Lord Evandale to the 
people of the Castle ; “ they shall not be restored until 
these men know better the use for which they are in- 
trusted with them. — And now,” he continued, addressing 
the mutineers, “ begone — make the best use of your 
lime, and of a truce of three hours, which the enemy 
are contented to allow you. Take the road to Edin- 
burgh, and meet me at the House-of-Muir. I need not 
bid you beware of committing violence by the way ; you 
will not, in your present condition, provoke resentment 
for your own sakes. Let your punctuality _ show that 
you mean to atone for this morning’s business.” 

The disarmed soldiers shrunk in silence from the pres- 
ence of their officer, and, leaving the Castle, took the 
road to the place of rendezvous, making such haste as 
was inspired by the fear of meeting with some detached 
parly of the insurgents, whom their present defenceless 
condition, and their former violence, might inspire with 
thoughts of revenge. Inglis, whom Evandale destined for 
punishment, remained in custody. Halliday was praised 


OLD MORTALITY. 


151 


'or his conduct, and assured of succeeding to the rank o/ 
the culprit. These arrangements being hastily made 
Lord Evandale accosted the Major, before whose eye.' 
the scene had seemed to pass like the change of a dream 

“ My dear Major, we must give up the place.” 

“ Is it even so said Major Bellenden. “ I was ii. 
hopes you had brought reinforcements and supplies.” 

“ Not a man — not a pound of meal,” answered Lord 
Evandale. 

“Yet 1 am blithe to see you,” returned the honest 
Major; “we were informed yesterday that these psalm- 
singing l ast als had a plot on your life, and 1 had mustered 
the scoundrelly dragoons ten minutes ago in order to beat 
up Burley’s quarters and get you out of limbo, when the 
dog Inglis, instead of obeying me, broke out into open 
mutiny. — But what is to be done now.?” 

“ I have myself no choice,” said Lord Evandale, “ I 
am a prisoner, released on parole, and bound for Edin- 
burgh. You and the ladies must take the same route. 
J have, by the favour of a friend, a safe conduct and 
horses for you and your retinue — for God’s sake make 
haste — you cannot propose to hold out with seven or 
eight men and without provisions — Enough has been 
done for honour, and enough to render the defence of 
the highest consequence to government. More were 
needless as well as desperate. The English troops are 
arrived at Edinburgh, and will speedily move upon Ham- 
ilton. The possession of Tillietudlem by the rebels will 
be but temporary.” 

“ If you think so, my lord,” said the veteran, with a 
reluctant sigh, — “ I know you only advise what is hon- 
ourable — if, then, you really think the case inevitable, I 
must submit ; for the mutiny of these scoundrels would 
render t impossible to man the walls. — Gudyill, let the 
women call up their mistresses, and all be ready to march 
^ — But if I could believe that my remaining in these old 
walls, till I was starved to a mummy, could do the King’s 
cause the least service, old Miles Bellenden would not 
leave them while there was a spark of life in his body 


152 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


The ladies, already alarmed by the mutiny, now heard 
the determination of the Major, in which they readily ac- 
quiesced, though not without some groans and sighs on the 
part of Lady Margaret, which referred, as usual, to the 
dejeune of his Most Sacred Majesty in the halls which 
were now to be abandoned to rebels. Hasty preparations 
were made for evacuating the Castle ; and long ere the 
dawn was distinct enough for discovering objects with pre- 
cision, the ladies, with Major Bellenden, Harrison, Gud- 
yill, and the other domestics, were mounted on the led 
horses, and others which had been provided in the neigh- 
bourhood, and proceeded towards the north, still escorted 
by four of the insurgent horsemen. The rest of the party 
who had accompanied Lord Evandale from the hamlet, 
took possession of the deserted Castle, carefully forbear- 
ing all outrage or acts of plunder. And when the sun 
arose, the scarlet and blue colours of the Scottish Cove 
nant floated from the Keep of Tillietudlem. 


CHAPTER XVJ. 

And, to my breast, a bodkin in her hand 
Were worth a thousand daggers. 

Marlow. 

The cavalcade which left the Castle of Tillietudlem 
halted for a few minutes at the small town of Boihwell, 
after passing the outposts of the insurgents, to take some 
slight refreshments which their attendants had provided, 
and which were really necessary to persons who had suf- 
fered considerably by want of proper nourishment. They 
then pressed forward upon the road towards Edinburgh, 
amid the lights of dawn which were now rising on the 
horizon. It might have been expected, during the course 
of the journey, that Lord Evandale would have been fre- 
quently by the side of Miss Edith Bellenden. Yet, after 
his first salutations had been exchanged, and every })re 
caution solicitously adopted which could serve for hei 


OLD MORTALITY. 


153 


accommodation, he rode in the van of the patty with 
Major T3ellenden, and seemed to abandon the charge 
of immediate attendance upon his lovely niece to one 
of the insurgent cavaliers, whose dark military cloak, 
with the large flapped hat and feather, which drooped over 
his face, concealed at once his figure and his features. 
They rode side by side in silence for more than two 
miles, when the stranger addressed Miss Bellenden in a 
tremulous and suppressed voice. 

“ Miss Bellenden,” he said, “ must have friends 
wherever she is known ; even among those whose con- 
duct she now disapproves. Is there anything that such 
can do to show their respect for her, and their regret for 
her sufTerings 

“ Let them learn for their own sakes,” replied Edith, 
‘‘ to venerate the laws and to spare innocent blood. Let 
them return to their allegiance, and I can forgive them 
all that I have suffered, were it ten times more.” 

“ You think it impossible then,” rejoined the cavalier, 
“ for any one to serve in our ranks having the weal of his 
country sincerely at heart, and conceiving himself in the 
discharge of a patriotic duty 

“ It might be imprudent while so absolutely in your 
power,” replied Miss Bellenden, “ to answer that ques- 
tion.” 

“ Not in the present instance, I plight you the word of 
a soldier,” replied the horseman. 

“ I have been taught candour from my birth,” said 
Edith ; “ and, if I am to speak at all, I must utter my 
real sentiments. God only can judge the heart — men 
must estimate intentions by actions. Treason, murder by 
the sword and by gibbet, the oppression of a private family 
such as ours, who were only in arms for the defence of the es- 
tablished government, and of our own property, are actions 
which must needs sully all that have accession to them, by 
whatever specious terms they may be gilded over.” 

“ The guilt of civil war” — rejoined the horseman — • 

the miseries which it brings in its train, lie at the dooi 
of tliose who provoked it by illegal oppression, rather 


154 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


-ban of such as are driven to arms in order to assert their 
natural rights as freemen.” 

“ That is assuming the question,” replied Edith, 
“ which ought to be proved. Each party contends that 
they are right in point of principle, and therefore the 
guilt must lie with them who first drew the sword ; as, 
in an affray, law holds those to be the criminals who are the 
first to have recourse to violence.” 

“ Alas !” said the* horseman, “ were our vindication to 
rest there, how easy would it be to show that we have 
suffered with a patience which almost seemed beyond 
the power of humanity, ere we were driven by oppression 
into open resistance ! — But I perceive,” he continued, 
sighing deeply, “ that it is vain to plead before Miss Bel- 
lenden a cause which she has already prejudged, perhaps 
as much from her dislike of the persons as of the princi- 
ples of those engaged in it.” 

“ Pardon me,” answered Edith ; “ I have stated with 
freedom my opinion of the principles of the insurgents ; 
of their persons I know nothing, — excepting in one soli- 
tary instance.” 

“ And that instance,” said the horseman, “ has influ- 
enced your opinion of the whole body 9” 

“ Far from it,” said Edith ; “ he is — at least I once 
thought him — one in whose scale few were fit to be weigh- 
ed — he is — or he seemed — one of early talent, high faith, 
pure morality, and warm affections. Can 1 approve 
of a rebellion which has made such a man, formed to 
ornament, to enlighten, and to defend his country, the 
companion of gloomy and ignorant fanatics, or cantino* 
hypocrites-, — the leader of brutal clowns, — the brother 
in-arms to banditti and highway murderers'? — Should 
you meet such a one in your camp, tell him that Edith 
Bellenden has wept more over his fallen character, 
blighted prospects, and dishonoured name, than over the 
distresses of her own house, — and that she has better 
endured that famine which has wasted her cheek and 
dimmed her eye, than the pang of heart which attended the 


OLD MORTALITY. 


155 


reflection by and through whom these calamities were 
inflicted.” 

As she thus spoke, she turned upon her companion a 
countenance whose faded cheek attested the reality of 
her sufferings, even while it glowed with the temporary 
animation which accompanied her language. The horse- 
man was not insensible to the appeal ; he raised his hand 
to liis brow with the sudden motion of one who feels a 
pang shoot along his brain, passed it hastily over his face, 
and then pulled the shadowy hat still deeper on his 
forehead. The movement and the feelings which it ex- 
cited did not escape Edith, nor did she remark them 
without emotion. 

“ And yet,” she said, “ should the person of whom I 
speak seem to you too deeply affected by the hard opin- 
ion of — of — an early friend, say to him, that sincere 
repentance is next to innocence ; that, though fallen from 
a height not easily recovered, and the author of much 
mischief, because gilded by his example, he may still 
atone in some measure for the evil he has done.” 

“ And in what manner 9” asked the cavalier, in the 
same suppressed, and almost choked voice. 

“ By lending his efforts to restore the blessings of 
peace to his distracted countrymen, and to induce the 
deluded rebels to lay down their arms. By saving 
their blood, he may atone for that which has been already 
spilt ; — and he that shall be most active in accomplishing 
this great end, will best deserve the thanks of this age, 
and an honoured remembrance in the next.” 

“ And in such a peace,” said her companion, with a 
firm voice, “ Miss Bellenden would not wish, I think, 
that the interests of the people were sacrificed unreserv- 
edly to those of the crown?” 

“ 1 am but a girl,” was the young lady’s reply ; and 
I scarce can speak on the subject without presumption. 
But, since 1 have gone so far, I will fairly add, I would 
wish to see a peace which should give rest to all parties, 
and secure the subjects from military rapine, which 1 


156 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


detest as much as I do the means now adopted to re- 
sist it.” 

“ Miss Bellenden,” answered Henry Morton, raising 
his face, and speaking in his natural tone, “ the person 
who has lost such a highly-valued place in your esteem, 
has yet too much spirit to plead his cause as a criminal ; 
and, conscious that he can no longer claim a friend’s in- 
terest in your bosom, he would be silent under your hard 
censure, were it not that he can refer to the honoured 
testimony of Lord Evandale, that his earnest wishes and 
most active exertions are, even now, directed to the ac- 
complishment of such a peace as the most loyal cannot 
censure.” 

He bowed with dignity to Miss Bellenden, who, though 
her language intimated that she well knew to whom she 
had been speaking, probably had not expected that he 
would justify himself with so much animation. She re- 
turned his salute, confused and in silence. Morton then 
rode forward to the head of the party. 

“ Henry Morton !” exclaimed Major Bellenden, sur- 
prised at the sudden apparition. 

“ The same,” answered Morton ; “ who is sorry that 
he labours under the harsh construction of Major Bellen- 
den and his family. He commits to my Lord Evan- 
dale,” he continued, turning towards the young noble- 
man, and bowing to him, “ the charge of undeceiving his 
friends, both regarding the particulars of his conduct and 
the purity of his motives. Farewell, Major Bellenden — 
All happiness attend you and yours — May we meet again 
in happier and better times !” 

“ Believe me,” said Lord Evandale, “your confidence, 
Mr. Morton, is not misplaced ; I will endeavour to repay 
the great services I have received from you by doing my 
best to place your character on its proper footing with 
Major Bellenden, and all whose esteem you value.” 

“ I expected no less from your generosity, my lord,” 
said Morton. 

He then called his followers, and rode off along the 
heath in the direction of Hamilton, their feathers waving 


OLD MORTALITY. 


167 


and their steel caps glancing in the beams of the rising 
sun. Cuddie Headrigg alone remained an instant behind 
his companions to take an affectionate farewell of Jenny 
Dennison, who had contrived, during this short morning’s 
ride, to reestablish her influence over his susceptible 
bosom. A straggling tree or two obscured, rather than 
concealed their tcte-a-Ute, as they halted their horses to 
bid adieu. 

“ Fare ye weel, Jenny,” said Cuddie, with a loud ex- 
ertion of his lungs, intended perhaps to be a sigh, but 
rather resembling the intonation of a groan, — “ Ye’ll 
think o’ puir Cuddie sometimes — an honest lad that lo’es 
ye, Jenny ; ye’ll think o’ him now and then 7” 

“ Whiles — at brose-time,” answered the malicious 
damsel, unable either to suppress the repartee or the 
arch smile which attended it. 

Cuddie took his revenge as rustic lovers are wont, 
and as Jenny probably expected, — caught his mistress 
round the neck, kissed her cheeks and lips heartily, 
and then turned his horse and trotted after his master. 

“ Deil’s in the fallow,” said Jenny, wiping her lips and 
adjusting her head-dress, “ he has twice the spunk o’ 
Tam Halliday, after a’ — Coming, my leddy, coming — 
Lord have a care o’ us, I trust the old leddy didna 
see us !” 

“ Jenny,” said Lady Margaret, as the damsel came up, 
“ was not that young man who commanded the party the 
same that was captain of the popinjay, and who was 
afterwards prisoner at Tillietudlem on the morning Clav- 
erhouse came there 9” 

Jenny, happy that the query had no reference to her 
own little matters, looked at her young mistress, to dis- 
cover if possible, whether it was her cue to speak truth or 
not. Not being able to catch any hint to guide her, she 
followed her instinct as a lady’s maid, and lied. 

“ I didna believe it was him, my leddy,” said Jenny, 
as confidently as if she had been saying her catechism, 
“ he was .i little black man, that.” 

14 voi.. II. 


158 


TALES or MY LANDLORD. 


“ You must have been blind, Jenny,” said the Major 
“ Henry Morton is tall and fair, and that youth is the 
very man.” 

“ I had ither thing ado than be looking at him,” said 
Jenny, tossing her head ; “ he may be as fair as a farthing 
candle for me.” 

“ Is it not,” said Lady Margaret, “ a blessed escape 
which we have made out of the hands of so desperate 
and blood-thirsty a fanatic 9” 

“ You are deceived, madam,” said Lord Evandale ; 
“ Mr. Morton merits such a title from no one, but least 
from us. That I am now alive, and that you are now on 
your safe retreat to your friends, instead of being prison- 
ers to a real fanatical homicide, is solely and entirely ow- 
ing to the prompt, active, and energetic humanity of this 
young gentleman.” 

He then went into a particular narrative of the events 
with which the reader is acquainted, dwelling upon the 
merits of Morton, and expatiating on the risk at which he 
had rendered them these important services, as if he had 
been a brother instead of a rival. 

“ 1 were worse than ungrateful,” he said, “ were I silent 
on the merits of the man who has twice saved my life.” 

“ I would willingly think well of Henry Morton, my 
lord,” replied Major Bellenden ; “ and I own he has be- 
haved handsomely to your lordship and to us ; but I can- 
not have the same allowances which it pleases your lord- 
ship to entertain for his present courses.” 

“ You are to consider,” replied Lord Evandale, “ that 
he has been partly forced upon them by necessity ; and I 
must add, that his principles, though differing in some de- 
gree from my own, are such as ought to command respect. 
Claverhouse, whose knowledge of men is not to be dis- 
puted, spoke justly of him as to his extraordinary quali. 
ties, but with prejudice, and harshly, concerning his prin- 
ciples and motives.” 

“You have not been long in learning all his extraordinary 
qualities, my lord,” answered Major Bellenden. “ I, who 
have known him from boyhood, could, before this affair, 


OLD MORTALITY. 


159 


have said much of his good principles and good-nature ; 
but as to his high talents” 

“ They were probably hidden, Major,” replied the gen- 
erous Lord Evandale, “ even from himself, until circum- 
stances called them forth ; and, if I have detected them, 
it was only because our intercourse and conversation turn- 
ed on momentous and important subjects. He is now 
labouring to bring this rebellion to an end, and the terms 
he has proposed are so moderate, that they shall not want 
my hearty recommendation.” 

“ And have you hopes,” said Lady Margaret, “ to 
accomplish a scheme so comprehensive ?” 

“ I should have, madam, were every whig as moderate 
as Morton, and every loyalist as disinterested as Major 
Bellenden. But such is the fanaticism and violent irrita- 
tion of both parties, that I fear nothing will end this civil 
war save the edge of the sword.” 

It may be readily supposed, that Edith listened with the 
deepest interest to this conversation. While she regretted 
tha^ she had expressed herself haishly and hastily to her 
lover, she felt a conscious and proud satisfaction that his 
character was, even in the judgment of his noble-minded 
rival, such as her own affection had once spoke it. 

“ Civil feuds and domestic prejudices,” she said, “ may 
render it necessary for me to tear his remembrance from 
my heart ; but it is no small relief to know assuredly, that 
it is worthy of the place it has so long retained there.” 

While Edith was thus retracting her unjust resentment, 
her lover arrived at the camp of the insurgents, near Ham- 
ilton, which he found in considerable confusion. Certain 
advices had arrived, that the royal army, having been re- 
cruited from England by a large detachment of the King’s 
Guards were about to take the field. F ame magnified their 
numbers and their high state of equipment and discipline, 
and spread abroad other circumstances which dismayed 
the courage of the insurgents. What favour they might 
have expected from Monmouth, was likely to be intercept- 
ed by the influence of those associated with him in com- 
mand. His Lieutenant-General was the celebrated General 
Thomas Dalzell, who, having practised the art of war in 


160 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


the then barbarous country of Russia, was as much feared 
for his cruelty and indifference to human life and human 
sufferings, as respected for his steady loyalty and undaunt- 
ed valour. This man was second in command to Mon- 
mouth, and the horse were commanded by Claverhouse, 
burning with desire to revenge the death of his nephew, 
and his defeat at Drumclog. To these accounts was ad- 
ded the most formidable and terrific description of tlie 
train of artillery and the cavalry force with which the 
royal army took the field. ^ 

Large bodies, composed of the Highland clans, having 
in language, religion, and manners, no connexion with the 
insurgents, had been summoned to join the royal army un- 
der their various chieftains ; and these Amorites, or Philis- 
tines, as the insurgents termed them, came like eagles to 
the slaughter. In fact, every person who could ride or run 
at the King’s command, was summoned to arms, apparently 
with the purpose of forfeiting and fining such men of proper- 
ty whom their principles might deter from joining the royal 
standard, though prudence prevented them from joining 
that of the insurgent Presbyterians. In short, every%u- 
mour tended to increase the apprehension among the in- 
surgents, that the King’s vengeance had only been delayed 
in order that it might fall more certain and more heavy. 

Morton endeavoured to fortify the minds of the com- 
mon people, by pointing out the probable exaggeration of 
these reports, and by reminding them of the strength of 
their own situation, with an unfordable river in front, only 
passable by a long and narrow bridge. He called to their 
remembrance their victory over Claverhouse when their 
numbers were few, and then much worse disciplined and 
appointed for battle than now ; showed them that the 
ground on which they lay afforded, by it-s undulation and 
the thickets wdiich intersected it, considerable protection 
against artillery, and even against cavalry, if stoutly de. 
fended ; and that their safety, in fact, depended on their 
own spirit and resolution. 

But while Morton thus endeavoured to keep up the 
courage of the army at large, he availed himself of those 
discouraging rumours to endeavour to impress on the 
minds of the leaders t’ . cessity of proposingto the - 


OLD MORTALITY. 


161 


ernment moderate terms of accommodation, while they 
were still formidable as commanding an unbroken and nu- 
merous army. He pointed out to them, that, in the present 
humour of their followers, it could hardly be expected that 
they would engage, with advantage, the well-appointed and 
regular force of the Duke of Monmouth ; and that, if they 
chanced, as was most likely, to be defeated and dispersed, 
the insurrection in which they had engaged, so far from be- 
ing useful to the country, would be rendered the apology 
for oppressing it more severely. Pressed by these argu- 
ments, and feeling it equally dangerous to remain together, 
or to dismiss their forces, most of the leaders readily agreed, 
that if such terms could be obtained as had been trans- 
mitted to the Duke of Monmouth by the hands of Lord 
Evandale, the purpose for which they had taken up arms 
would be, in a. great measure, accomplished. They then 
entered into similar resolutions, and agreed to guarantee 
the petition and remonstrance which had been drawn up 
by Morton. On the contrary, there were still several 
leaders, and those men whose influence with the people 
exceeded that of persons of more apparent consequence, 
who regarded every proposal of treaty, which did not pro- 
ceed on the basis of the Solemn League and Covenant of 
1640, as utterly null and void, impious, and unchristian. 
These men diffused their feelings among the multitude, 
who had little foresight and nothing to lose, and persuad- 
ed many that the timid counsellors who recommended 
peace upon terms short of the dethronement of the royal 
family, and the declared independence of the church with 
respect to the state, were cowardly labourers, who were 
about to withdraw their hands from the plough, and des- 
picable trimmers, who sought only a specious pretext for 
deserting their brethren in arms. These contradictory 
opinions were fiercely argued in each tent of the insurgent 
army, or rather in the huts or cabins which served in 
the place of tents. Violence in language often led to 
open quarrels and blows, and the divisions into which the 
army of sufferei's was rent, served as too plain a presage 
of their future fate. 

14* VOL. II. 


62 


TALES OF Mr LANDLORD. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

The curse of growing factions and divisions 
Still vex your councils ! 

Venice Preserved, 


The prudence of Morton found sufficient occupation 
in stemming the furious current of these contending par- 
ties, when, two days after his return to Hamilton, he was 
visited by his friend and colleague, the Reverend Mr. 
Poundtext, flying, as he presently found, from the face of 
John Balfour of Burley, whom we left not a little incens- 
ed at the share he had taken in the liberation of Lord 
Evandale. When the worthy divine had somewhat re- 
cruited his spirits, after the hurry and fatigue of his jour- 
ney, he proceeded to give Morton an account of what 
had passed in the vicinity of Tillietudlem after the me- 
morable morning of his departure. 

The night march of Morton had been accomplished 
with such dexterity, and the men were so faithful to their 
trust, that Burley received no intelligence of what had 
happened until the morning was far advanced. His first 
inquiry was, whether Macbriar and Kettledrummle had 
arrived, agreeably to the summons which he had despatch- 
ed at midnight. Macbriar had come, and Kettledrummle, 
though a heavy traveller, might, he was informed, be in- 
stantly expected. Burley then despatched a messenger 
to Morton’s quarters, to summon him to an immediate 
council. The messenger returned with news that he had 
left the place. Poundtext was next summoned ; but he, 
thinking, as he said himself, that it was ill dealing with 
fractious folk, had withdrawn to his own quiet manse, pre- 
ferring a dark ride, though he had been on horseback the 
whole preceding day, to a renewal in the morning of a 
controversy with Burley, whose ferocity overawed him 


OLD MORTALITY. 


]6ti 

when unsupported by the firmness of Morton. Burley’s 
next inquiries were directed after Lord Evandale ; and 
great was his rage when he learned that he had been con- 
veyed away over night by a party of the marksmen of 
Milnwood, under the immediate command of Henry Mor- 
ton himself. 

“ The villain !” exclaimed Burley, addressing himself 
to Macbriar ; “ the base, mean-spirited traitor, to curry 
favour for himself with the government, hath set at liberty 
the prisoner taken by my own right hand, through means 
of whom, I have little doubt, the possession of the place 
of strength, which hath wrought us such trouble, might 
now have been in our hands !” 

“ But is it not in our hands 9” said Macbriar, looking 
up towards the Keep of the Castle ; “ and are not these 
the colours of the Covenant that float over its walls 

“ A stratagem — a mere trick,” said Burley, “ an insult 
over our disappointment, intended to aggravate and em- 
bitter our spirits.” 

He was interrupted by the arrival of one of Morton’s 
followers, sent to report to him the evacuation of the 
place, and its occupation by the insurgent forces. Burley 
was rather driven to fury than reconciled by the news of 
this success. 

“ I have watched,” he said — “ I have fought — 1 have 
plotted — 1 have striven for the reduction of this place — 1 
have forborne to seek to head enterprizes of higher com- 
mand and of higher honour — I have narrowed their out- 
goings, and cut off the springs, and broken the staff of 
bread within their walls ; and when the men were about 
to yield themselves to my hand, that their sons might be 
bondsmen, and their daughters a laughing-stock to our 
whole camp, cometh this youth, without a beard on his 
chin, and takes it on him to thrust his sickle into the har- 
vest, and to rend the prey from the spoiler ! Surely the 
labourer is worthy of his hire, and the city, with its cap- 
tives, should be given to him that wins it.” 

“ Nay,” said Macbriar, who was surprised at the degree 
of agitation which Balfour displayed, “ chafe not thyself 


164 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


because of the ungodly. Heaven will use its own instru- 
ments, ; and who knows but this youth” 

“ Hush ! hush !” said Burley ; “ do not discredit thine 
own belter judgment. It was thou that first badest me 
beware of this painted sepulchre — this lacquered piece of 
copper, that passed current with me for gold. It fares ill, 
even with the elect, when they neglect the guidance of 
such pious pastors as thou. But our carnal affections 
will mislead us — this ungrateful boy’s father was mine an- 
cient friend. They must be as earnest in their struggles 
as thou, Ephraim Macbriar, that would shake themselves 
clear of the clogs and chains of humanity.” 

This compliment touched the preacher in the most sen- 
sible part 5 and Burley deemed, therefore, he should find 
little difficulty in moulding his opinions to the support of 
his own views, more especially as they agreed exactly in 
their high-strained opinions of church government. 

“ Let us instantly,” he said, ‘‘ go up to the Tower ; 
there is that among the records in yonder fortress, which, 
well used as I can use it, shall be worth to us a valiant 
leader and an hundred horsemen.” 

“ But will such be the fitting aids of the children of 
the Covenant ?” said the preacher. “ We have already 
among us too many who hunger after lands, and silver and 
gold, rather than after the word ; it is not by such that 
our deliverance shall be wrought out.” 

“ Thou errest,” said Burley ; “ we must work by 
means, and these worldly men shall be our instruments. 
At all events, the Moabitish woman shall be despoiled of 
her inheritance, and neither the malignant Evandale, nor 
the Erastian Morton, shall possess yonder castle and lands, 
though they may seek in marriage the daughter thereof.’ 

So saying, he led the way to Tillietudlem, where he 
seized upon the plate and other valuables for the use ol 
the army, ransacked the charter-room, and other recep- 
tacles for family papers, and treated with contempt the 
remonstrances of those who reminded him, that the terms 
granted to the garrison had guaranteed respect to private 
prooerty. 


OLD MORTALITY. 


165 


Burley and Macbriar, having established themselves in 
their new acquisition, were joined by Kettledrummle in 
the course of the day, and also by the Laird of Langcale, 
whom that active divine had contrived to seduce, as Pound- 
text termed it, from the pure light in which he had been 
brought up. Thus united, they sent to the said Pound- 
text an invitation, or rather a summons, to attend a council 
at Tillietudlem. He remembered, however, that the door 
had an iron grate, and the Keep a dungeon, and resolved 
not to trust himself with his incensed colleagues. He 
therefore retreated, or rather fled, to Hamilton, with the 
tidings, that Burley, Macbriar, and Kettledrummle, were 
coming to Hamilton as soon as they could collect a body 
of Caraeronians sufficient to overawe the rest of the army. 

‘‘ And ye see,” concluded Poundtext, with a deep sigh, 
“ that they will then possess a majority in the council ; 
for Langcale, though he has always passed for one of the 
honest and rational party, cannot be suitably, or preceese- 
ly termed either fish, or flesh, or gude red-herring — who- 
ever has the stronger party has Langcale.” 

Thus concluded the heavy narrative of honest 
Poundtext, who sighed detiply, as he considered the dan- 
ger in which he was placed betwixt unreasonable adver- 
saries amongst themselves and the common enemy from 
without. Morton exhorted him to patience, temper, 
and composure ; informed him of the good hope he had 
of negotiating for peace and indemnity through means of 
Lord Evandale, and made out to him a very fair prospect 
that he should again return to his owmi parchment-bound 
Calvin, his evening pipe of tobacco, and his noggin of in- 
spiring ale, providing always he would afford his effectual 
support and concurrence to the measures which he, Morton 
had taken for a general pacification .9 Thus backed and 
comforted, Poundtext resolved magnanimously to await 
the coming of the Cameronians to the general rendezvous. 

Burley and his confederates had drawn together a con- 
siderable body of these sectaries, amounting to a hundred 
horse and about fifteen hundred foot, clouded and severe 
in aspect, morose and jealous in communication, haughty 


166 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD 


of heart, and confident, as men who believed that tlie pale 
of salvation w^as open for them exclusively; while all other 
Christians, however slight were the shades of difference 
of doctrine from their own, were in fact little better than 
outcasts or re])robates. These men entered the presby- 
terian camp, rather as dubious and suspicious allies, or 
possibly antagonists, than as men who were heartily em- 
barked m the siame cause, and exposed to the same dan- 
gers, with their more moderate brethren in arms. Bur- 
ley made no private visits to his colleagues, and held no 
communication with them on the subject of the public 
affairs, otherwise than by sending a dry invitation to them 
to attend a meeting of the general council for that evening. 

On the arrival of Morton and Poundtext at the place 
of assembly, they found their brethren already seated. 
Slight greeting passed between them, and it was easy to 
see that no amicable conference was intended by those 
who convoked the council. The first question was put 
by Macbriar, the sharp eagerness of whose zeal urged 
him to the van on all occasions. He desired to know by 
whose authority the malignant, called Lord Evandale, had 
been freed from the doom of death, justly denounced 
against him. 

“ By my authority and Mr. Morton’s,” replied Pound- 
text; who, besides being anxious to give his companion a 
good opinion of his courage, confided heartily in his sup- 
port, and, moreover, had much less fear of encountering 
one of his own profession, and who confined himself to 
the weapons of theological controversy, in which Pound- 
text feared no man, than of entering into debate with the 
stern homicide Balfour. 

“ And who, brother,” said Kettledrummle, ‘‘ who gave 
you authority to interpose in such a high matter V’ 

‘‘ The tenor of our commission,” answered Poundtext, 
“ gives us authority to bind and to loose. If Lord Evan- 
dale was justly doomed to die by the voice of one of our 
number, he was of a surety lawfully redeemed from death 
by the warrant of two of us.” 


OLD MORTALITY. 


167 


“ Go to, go to,” said Burley ; “ we know your motives , 
it was to send that silkworm — that gilded trinket — that 
embroidered trifle of a lord, to bear terms of peace to 
the tyrant.” 

“ It was so,” replied Morton, who saw his companion 
begin to flinch before the fierce eye of Balfour — “ it was 
so ; and what then 9 — Are we to plunge'the nation in end- 
less war, in order to pursue schemes which are equally 
wild, wicked, and unattainable 

“ Hear him !” said Balfour ; “ he blasphemeth.” 

“ It is false,” said Morton ; “ they blaspheme who pre- 
tend to expect miracles, and neglect the use of the human 
means with which Providence has blessed them. I repeat 
it — Our avowed object is the re-establishment of peace 
on fair and honourable terms of security to our religion 
and our liberty. We disclaim any desire to tyrannize 
over those of others.” 

The debate would now have run higher than ever, but 
they were interrupted by intelligence that the Duke of 
Monmouth had commenced his march towards the west, 
and was already advanced half way from Edinburgh. 
This news silenced their divisions for the moment, and it 
was agreed that the next day should be held as a fast of 
general humiliation for the sins of the land j that the Rev- 
erend Mr. Poundtext should preach to the army in the 
morning, and Kettledrummle in the afternoon ; that nei- 
ther should touch upon any topics of schism or of division, 
but animate the soldiers to resist to the blood, like breth- 
ren in a good cause. This healing overture having been 
agreed to, the moderate party ventured upon another pro- 
posal, confiding that it would have the support of Lang- 
cale, who looked extremely blank at the news which they 
had just received, and might be supposed re-converted 
to moderate measures. It was to be presumed, they said, 
that since the King had not intrusted the command of his 
forces upon the present occasion to any of their active 
oppressors, but, on the contrary, had employed a nobleman 
distinguished by gentleness of temper, and a disposition fa- 
vourable to their cause, there must be some better intention 


168 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


entertained towards them than they had yet experienced. 
They contended, that it was not only prudent but neces- 
sary to a‘?r.f'Tlain, from a communication with the Duke 
of Monmouth, whether he was not charged with some 
secret instructions in their favour. This could only be 
learned by despatching an envoy to his army. 

“ iVnd who will undertake the task ?” said Burley, 
evading a proposal too reasonable to be openly resisted — 
“ Who will go up to their camp, knowing that John Grahams 
of Claverhouse hath sworn to hang up whomsoever we 
shall despatch towards them, in revenge of the death of 
the young man his nephew T’ 

“ Let that be no obstacle,” said Morton ; “ I will with 
pleasure encounter any risk attached to the bearer of your 
errand.” 

“ Let him go,” said Balfour, apart to Macbriar ; “ our 
councils will be well rid of his presence.” 

The motion, therefore, received no contradiction even 
from those who were expected to have been most active 
in opposing it ; and it was agreed that Henry Morton 
should go to the camp of the Duke of Monmouth, in or- 
der to discover upon what terms the insurgents would be 
admitted to treat with him. As soon as his errand was 
made known, several of the more moderate party joined 
in requesting him to make terms upon the footing of the 
petition intrusted to Lord Evandale’s hands ; for the ap- 
proach of the King’s army spread a general trepidation, 
by no means allayed by the high tone assumed by the 
Cameronians, which had so little to support it, excepting 
their own headlong zeal. With these instructions, and 
with Cuddie as his attendant, Morton set forth towards 
the royal camp, at all the risks which attend those who as- 
sume the office of mediator during the heat of civil discord. 

Morton had not proceeded six or seven miles before 
he perceived that he was on the point of falling in with 
the van of the royal forces ; and, as he ascended a height, 
saw all the roads in the neighbourhood occupied by armed 
men marching in great order towards Bothwell-muir, an 
open common, on which they proposed to encamp for that 


OLD MORTALITY. 


IbO 

evening, at the distance of scarcely two miles from the 
Clyde, on the farther side of which river the army of the 
insurgents was encamped. He gave himself up to the first 
advanced-guard of cavalry which he met, as bearer of a 
flag of truce, and communicated his desire to obtain access 
to the Duke of Monmouth. The non-commissioned officer 
who commanded the party made his report to his superior, 
and he again to another in still higher command, and both 
immediately rode to the spot where Morton was detained. 

“ You are but losing your time, my friend, and risking 
your life,” said one of them, addressing Morton ; “ the 
Duke of Monmouth will receive no terms from traitors with 
arms in their hands, and your cruelties have been such as to 
authorize retaliation of every kind. Better trot your nag 
back and save his mettle to-day, that he may save your life 
to-morrow.” 

“ 1 cannot think,” said Morton, “ that even if the Duke 
of Monmouth should consider us as criminals, he would 
condemn so large a body of 'his fellow-subjects without 
even hearing what they have to plead for themselves. On 
my part I fear nothing. I am conscious of having con- 
sented to, or authorized no cruelty, and the fear of suf- 
fering innocently for the crimes of others, shall not deter 
me from executing my commission.” 

The two officers looked at each other. 

“ I have an idea,” said the younger, “ that this is the 
young man of whom Lord Evandale spoke.” 

“ Is my Lord Evandale in the army V' said Morton. 

“ He is not,” replied the officer ; “ we left him at Ed- 
inburgh too much indisposed to take the field. — Your 
name, sir, I presume, is Henry Morton 9” 

‘‘ It is, sir,” answered Morton. 

“ We will not oppose your seeing the Duke, sir,” said 
the officer, with more civility of manner ; “ but you may 
assure yourself it will be to no purpose ; for, were his 
Grace disposed to favour your people, others are joined 
in commission with him who will hardly consent to his 
doing so.” 

‘‘ I shall be sorry to find it thus,” said Morton ; “ but 
15 VOL. II. 


170 


TAI.ES OE MY LANDLORD. 


my duty requires that I should persevere in my desire to 
have an interview with him.” 

“ Lumley,” said the superior officer, ‘‘ let the Duke 
know of Mr. Morton’s arrival, and remind his Grace that 
this is the person of whom Lord Evandale spoke so highly.” 

The officer returned with a message that the General 
could Jiot see Mr. Morton that evening, but would receive 
him by times in the ensuing morning. He was detained 
in a neighbouring cottage all night, but treated with civil- 
ity, and everything provided for his accommodation. 
Early on the next morning the officer he had first seen 
came to conduct him to his audience. 

The army was drawn out, and in the act of forming 
column for march, or attack. The Duke was in the cen- 
tre, nearly a mile from the place where Morton had pass- 
ed the night. In riding towards the General, he had an 
opportunity of estimating the force which had been assem- 
bled for the suppression of the hasty and ill-concerted in- 
surrection. There were three or four regiments of Eng- 
lish, the flower of Charles’s army — there were the Scot- 
tish Life-Guards, burning with desire to revenge their late 
defeat — other Scottish regiments of regulars were also 
assembled, and a large body of cavalry, consisting partly 
of gentlemen-volunteers, partly of the tenants of the crown 
who did military duty for their fiefs. Morton also observ- 
ed several strong parties of Highlanders drawn from the 
points nearest to the Lowland frontiers, a people, as already 
mentioned, particularly obnoxious to the western whigs, 
and who hated and despised them in the same proportion. 
These were assembled under their chiefs, and made part of 
this formidable array. A complete train of field-artillery 
accompanied these Uoops ; and the whole had an air so 
imposing, that it seemed nothing short of an actual miracle 
could prevent the ill-equipped, ill-modelled, and tumultu- 
ary army of the insurgents from being utterly destroyed. 
The officer who accompanied Morton endeavoured to 
gather from his looks the feelings with which this splendid 
and awful parade of military force had impressed him. 
But, true to the cause he had espoused, he laboured success- 


01.1) MORTALITY. 


171 


ully to prevent the anxiety which he felt from appearing 
n his countenance, and looked around him on the war- 
like display as on a sight which he expected, and to which 
he was indifferent. 

“ You se'e the entertainment prejftred for you,” said 
the officers. 

“ If I had no appetite for it,” replied Morton, “ I should 
not have been accompanying you at this moment. But 
I shall be better pleased with a more peaceful regale, for 
the sake of all parties.” 

As they spoke thus, they approached the commander- 
in-chief, who, surrounded by several officers, was seated 
upon a knoll commanding an extensive prospect of the 
distant country, and from which could be easily discover- 
ed the windings of the majestic Clyde and the distant 
camp of the insurgents on the opposite bank. The offi- 
cers of the royal army appeared to be surveying the ground 
with the purpose of directing an immediate attack. When 
Captain Lumley, the officer who accompanied Morton, 
had whispered in Monmouth’s ear his name and errand, 
the Duke made a signal for all around him to retire, ex- 
cepting only two general officers of distinction. While 
they spoke together in whispers for a few minutes before 
Morton was permitted to advance, he had time to study 
the appearance of the persons with whom he was to treat. 

It was impossible for any one to look upon the Duke 
of Monmouth without being captivated by his personal 
graces and accomplishments, of which the great High- 
Priest of all the Nine afterwards recorded — 

Whate’er he did was done with so much ease, 

In him alone 'twas natural to please ; 

His motions all accompanied with grace, 

And Paradise was opened in his face.” 


Yet, to a Strict observer, the manly beauty of Monmouth’s 
face was occasionally rendered less striking by an air of 
vacillation and uncertainty, which seemed to imply hesi- 
tation and doubt at moments when decisive resolution was 
most necessary. 


72 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


Beside him stood Claverhouse, whom we have already 
'ully described, and another general officer, whose ap- 
pearance was singularly striking. His dress was of the 
antique fashion of Charles the First’s time, and composed 
of shamoy leather, ituriously slashed and covered with 
antique lace and garniture. His boots and spurs might 
be referred to the same distant period. He wore a breast- 
plate, over which descended a grey beard of venerable 
length, which he cherished as a mark of mourning for 
Charles the First, having never shaved since that monarch 
was brought to the scaffold. His head was uncovered, 
and almost perfectly bald. His high and wrinkled fore- 
head, piercing grey eyes, and marked features, evinced 
age unbroken by infirmity, and stern resolution unsoften- 
ed by humanity. Such is the outline, however feebly ex- 
pressed, of the celebrated General Thomas Dalzell,^ 
man more feared and hated by the whigs than even Cla- 
verhouse himself, and who executed the same violences 
against them out of a detestation of their persons, or per- 
haps an innate severity of temper, which Grahame only 
resorted to on political accounts, as the best means of in- 
timidating the followers of presbytery, and of destroying 
that sect entirely. 

‘ The presence of these two generals, one of whom he 
knew by person, and the other by description, seemed to 
Morton decisive of the fate of his embassy. But, not- 
withstanding his youth and inexperience, and the unfa- 
vourable reception which his proposals seemed likely to 
meet with, he advanced boldly towards them upon receiv- 
ing a signal to that purpose, determined that the cause ot 
his country, and of those with whom he had taken up 
arms, should suffer nothing from being intrusted to him. 
Monmouth received him with the graceful courtesy which 
attended even his slightest. actions ; Dalzell regarded him 
with a stern, gloomy, and impatient frown ; and Claver- 
house, with a sarcastic smile and inclination of his head, 
seemed to claim him as an old acquaintance. 

“ You come, sir, from these unfortunate people, now 
assembled in arms,” said the Duke of Monmouth, ‘‘ and 


OLD MORTALITT. 


173 


your name, I believe, is Morton ; will you favour us with 
the purport of your errand ?” 

“ It is contained, my lord,” answered Morton, “ in a 
paper, termed a Remonstrance, and Supplication, which 
my Lord Evandale has placed, I presume, in your Grace’s 
hands 

“ He has done so, sir,” answered the Duke ; “ and I 
understand, from Lord Evandale, that Mr. Morton has 
behaved in these unhappy matters with much temperance 
and generosity, for which I have to request his acceptance 
of my thanks.” 

Here Morton observed Dalzell shake his head indig- 
nantly, and whisper something into Claverhouse’s ear, who 
smiled in return, and elevated his eyebrows, but in a de- 
gree so slight as scarce to be perceptible. The Duke, 
taking the petition from his pocket, proceeded, obviously 
struggling between the native gentleness of his own dis- 
position, and perhaps his conviction that the petitioners de- 
manded no more than their rights, and the desire, on the 
other hand, of enforcing the King’s authority, and complying 
with the sterner opinions of his colleagues in office, who 
had been assigned for the purpose of controlling as well 
as advising him. 

“ There are, Mr. Morton, in this paper, proposals, as 
to the abstract propriety of which 1 must now waive de- 
livering any opinion. Some of them appear to me 
reasonable and just ; and, although I have no express in- 
structions from the King upon the subject, yet I assure 
you, Mr. Morton, and I pledge my honour, that I will in- 
terpose in your behalf, and use my utmost influence to 
procure you satisfaction from his Majesty. But you must 
distinctly understand, that I can only treat with supplicants, 
not with rebels ; and, as a preliminary to every act of 
favour on my side, 1 must insist upon your followers laying 
down their arms and dispersing themselves.” 

“ To do so, my Lord Duke,” replied Morton, undaunt- 
edly, “ were to acknowledge ourselves the rebels that our 
enemies term us. Our swords are drawn for recovery of 
15 * VOL. II. 


174 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


a birth-right wrested from us ; your Grace’s moderation 
and good sense has admitted the general justice of our 
demand, — a demand which would never have been listen- 
ed to had it not been accompanied with the sound of the 
trumpet. We cannot, therefore, and dare not, lay down 
our arms, even on your Grace’s assurance of indemnity, 
unless it were accompanied with some reasonable pros- 
pect of the redress of the wrongs which we complain of.” 

“ Mr. Morton,” replied the Duke, “ you are young, but 
you must have seen enough of the world to perceive that 
requests, by no means dangerous or unreasonable in them- 
selves, may become so by the way in which they are 
pressed and supported.” 

“ We may reply, my lord,” answered Morton, “ that 
this disagreeable mode has not been resorted to until all 
others have failed.” 

“ Mr. Morton,” said the Duke, I must break this 
conference short. We are in readiness to commence the 
attack ; yet I will suspend it for an hour, until you can 
communicate my answer to the insurgents. If they please 
to disperse their followers, lay down their arms, and send 
a peaceful deputation to me, I will consider myself bound 
in honour to do all 1 can to procure redress of their griev- 
ances ; if not, let them stand on their guard and expect 
the consequences. — I think, gentlemen,” he added, turn- 
ing to his two colleagues, “ this is the utmost length to 
which I can stretch my instructions in favour of these 
misguided persons 

“ By my faith,” answered Dalzell, suddenly, “ and it 
is a length to which my poor judgment durst not have 
stretched them, considering I had both the King and my 
conscience to answer to ! But, doubtless, your Grace 
knows more of the King’s private mind than we, who have 
only the letter of our instructions to look to.” 

Monmouth blushed deeply. “ You hear,” he said, ad 
dressing Morton, “ General Dalzell blames me for the 
length which I am disposed to go in your favour.” 

“ General Dalzell’s sentiments, my lord,” replied Mor- 
ton, “ are such as we expected from him ; your Grace’s 


OLD MORTALITY. 


175 


Buch as we were prepared to hope you might please to 
entertain. Indeed I cannot help adding, that, in the case of 
the absolute submission upon which you are pleased to 
insist, it might still remain something less than doubtful 
how far, with such counsellors around the King, even your 
Grace’s intercession might procure us effectual relief. 
But J will communicate to our leaders your Grace’s an- 
swer to our supplication ; and, since we cannot obtain 
peace, we must bid war welcome as well as we may.” 

“ Good morning, sir,” said the Duke ; “ I suspend the 
movements of attack for one hour, and for one hour only. 
If you have an answer to return within that space of time, 
I will receive it here, and earnestly entreat it may be such 
as to save the effusion of blood.” 

At this moment another smile of deep meaning passed 
between Dalzell and Claverhouse. The Duke observed 
it, and repeated his words with great dignity. 

“ Yes, gentlemen, I said I trusted the answer might be 
such as would save the effusion of blood. I hope the 
sentiment neither needs your scorn, nor incurs your dis- 
pleasure.” 

Dalzell returned the Duke’s frown with a stern glance, 
but made no answer. Claverhouse, his lip just curled 
with an ironical smile, bowed, and said, “ It was not for 
him to judge the propriety of his Grace’s sentiments.” 

The Duke made a signal to Morton to withdraw. He 
obeyed ; and, accompanied by his former escort, rode 
slowly through the army to return to the camp of the non- 
conformists. As he passed the fine corps of Life-Guards, 
he found Claverhouse was already at their head. That 
officer no sooner saw Morton, than he advanced and ad- 
dressed him with perfect politeness of manner. 

“ I think this is not the first time I have seen Mr. Mor- 
ton of Milnwood 9” 

“ It is not Colonel Grahame’s fault,” said Morton, 
smiling sternly, “ that he or any one else should be now 
incommoded by my presence.” 

“ Allow me at least to say,” replied Claverhouse, “ that 
Mr. Morton’s present situation authorizes the opinion I 


176 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


have entertained of him, and that my proceedings at our 
last meeting only squared to my duty.” 

‘‘ To reconcile your actions to your duty, and your duty 
to your conscience, is your business. Colonel Graharne, 
not mine,” said Morton, justly offended at being thus, in 
a manner, required to approve of the sentence undei 
which he had so nearly suffered. 

“ Nay, but stay an instant,” said Claverhouse ; “ Evan- 
dale insists that 1 have some wrongs to acquit myself oi 
in your instance. I trust I shall always make some dif- 
ference between a high-minded gentleman, who, though 
misguided, acts upon generous principles, and the crazy 
fanatical clowns yonder, with the blood-thirsty assassins 
who head them. Therefore, if they do not disperse upon 
your return, let me pray you instantly come over to our 
army and surrender yourself, for, be assured, they can- 
not stand our assault for half an hour. If you will be 
ruled and do this, be sure to inquire for me. Monmouth, 
strange as it may seem, cannot protect you — Dalzell will 
not — I both can and will ; and I have promised to Evan- 
dale to do so if you will give me an opportunity.” 

“ I should owe Lord Evandale my thanks,” answered 
Morton coldly, “ did not his scheme imply an opinion that 
I might be prevailed on to desert those with whom lam 
engaged. For you. Colonel Graharne, if you will honour 
me with a different species of satisfaction, it is probable, 
that, in an hour’s time, you will find me at the west end 
of Bothwell Bridge with my sword in my hand.” 

“ 1 shall be happy to meet you, there,” said Claverhouse, 
“ but still more so should you think better on my first 
proposal.” 

They then saluted and parted. 

That is a pretty lad, Lumley,” said Claverhouse, ad- 
dressing himself to the other officer ; “ but ho is a lost 
man — his blood be upon his head.” 

So saying, he addressed himself to the task of prepar- 
ation for instant battle. 


OLD MORTALITY. 


177 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

But, hark ! the tent has changed its voice, 

There’s peace and rest uae langer. 

rr.. . Bums. 

The Lowdien Mallisha they 

Came witii their coats of blew ; 

Five hundred men from London came, 

Claid in a reddish hue. BothweR Lines. 

When Morton had left the well-ordered outposts of the 
regular army, and arrived at those which were maintained 
by his own party, he could not hut be peculiarly sensible of 
the difference of discipline, and eaitertain a proportional 
degree of fear for the consequences. The same discords 
which agitated the counsels of the insurgents, raged even 
among their meanest followers ; and their picquets and pa- 
trols were more interested and occupied in disputing the 
true occasion and causes of wrath, and defining the limits 
of Erastian heresy, than in looking out for and observing 
the motions of their enemies, though within hearing of the 
royal drums and trumpets. 

There was a guard, however, of the insurgent army, post- 
ed at the long and narrow bridge of Bothwell, over which 
the enemy must necessarily advance to the attack; but, like 
the others, they were divided and disheartened ; and, en- 
tertaining the idea that they were posted on a desperate ser- 
vice, they even meditated withdrawing themselves to the 
main body. This would have been utter ruin ; for, on the 
defence or loss of this pass, the fortune of the day was most 
likely to depend. All beyond the bridge was a plain open 
field, excepting a few thickets of no great depth, and, con- 
sequently, was ground on which the undisciplined forces of 
the insurgents, deficient as they were in cavalry, and to- 
tally unprovided with artillery, were altogether unlikely 
to withstand the shock of regular troops. 

Morton, therefore, viewed the pass carefully, and form- 
ed the hope, that by occupying two or three houses on the 
left bank of the river, with the copse and thickets of al- 
ders and hazels that lined its side, and by blockading the 
passage itself, and shutting the gates of a portal, which, 


178 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


according to the old fashion, was huilt on the central arch 
of the bridge of Bothwell, it might be easily defended 
against a very superior force. He issued directions ac- 
cordingly, and commanded the parapets of the bridge, on 
the farther side of the portal to be thrown down, that 
they might afford no protection to the enemy when they 
should attempt the passage. Morton then conjured the 
party at this important post to be watchful and upon their 
guard, and promised them a speedy and strong reinforce- 
ment. He caused them to advance videttes beyond the 
river to watch the progress of the enemy, which out-posts 
he directed should be withdrawn to the left bank as soon 
as they approached ; finally, he charged them to send 
regular information to the main body of all that they should 
observe. Men under arms, and in a situation of danger, 
•are usually sufficiently alert in appreciating the merits of 
their officers. Morton’s intelligence and activity gained 
the confidence of these men, and with better hope and 
heart than before, they began to fortify their position in 
the manner he recommended, and saw him depart with 
three loud cheers. 

Morton now galloped hastily towards the main body of 
the insurgents, but was surprised and shocked at the scene 
rof confusion and clamour which it exhibited, at the mo- 
ment when good order and concord were of such essen- 
tial consequence. Instead of being drawn up in line of 
battle, and listening to the commands of their officers, 
they were crowding together in a confused mass, that roll- 
ed and agitated itself like the waves of the sea, while a 
thousand tongues spoke, or rather vociferated, and not a 
single ear was found to listen. Scandalized at a scene so 
extraordinary, Morton endeavoured to make his way 
through the press to learn, and, if possible, to remove, 
the cause of this so untimely disorder. While he is thus 
engaged, we shall make the reader acquainted with that 
which he was some time in discovering. 

The insurgents had proceeded to hold their day of hu- 
miliation, which, agreeably to the practice of the puritans 
during the earlier civil war, they considered as the most 


OLD MORTALITY. 


179 


effectual mode of solving all difficulties, and waiving all dis- 
cussions. It was usual to name an ordinary week-day for 
this purpose, but on this occasion the Sabbath itself was 
adopted, owing to the pressure of the time, and the vicinity of 
the enemy. A temporary pulpit, or tent, was erected in the 
middle of the encampment ; which, according to the fixed 
arrangement, was first to be occupied by the Reverend Pe- 
ter Poundtext, to whom the post of honour was assigned, 
as the eldest clergyman present. But as the worthy divine, 
with slow and stately steps, was advancing towards the ros- 
trum which had been prepared for him, he was prevented 
by the unexpected apparition of Habakkuk Muckle wrath, 
the insane preacher, whose appearance had so much start- 
led Morton at the first council of the insurgents after their 
victory at Loudon-hill. It is not known whether he was 
artJting under the influence and instigation of the Camero- 
nians, or whether he was merely compelled by his own agi- 
tated imagination, and the temptation of a vacant pulpit be- 
fore him, to seize the opportunity of exhorting so respecta- 
ble a congregation. It is only certain, that he took occasion 
by the forelock, sprung into the pulpit, cast his eyes wildly 
round him, and, undismayed by the murmurs of many of 
the audience, opened the Bible, read forth as his text from 
the thirteenth chapter of Deuteronomy, “ Certain men, 
the children of Belial, are gone out from among you, and 
have withdrawn the inhabitants of their city, saying, let us 
go and serve other gods which you have not known 
and then rushed at once into the midst of his subject. 

The harangue of Mucklewrath was as wild and extrav- 
agant as his intrusion was unauthorized and untimely ; 
but it was provokingly coherent, in so far as it turned en- 
tirely upon the very subjects of discord, of which it had 
been agreed to adjourn the consideration until some more 
suitable opportunity. Not a single topic did he omit which 
had offence in it ; and, after charging the moderate party 
with heresy, with crouching to tyranny, with seeking to be 
at peace with God’s enemies, he applied to Morton, by 
name, the charge that he had been one of those men of 
Belial, who, in the words of his text, had gone out from 
amongst them to withdraw the inhabitants of his city, and 


180 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


to go astray after false gods. To him, and all who fol 
lowed him, or approved of his conduct, Mucklewraih de- 
nounced fury and vengeance, and exhorted those who 
would hold themselves pure and undefiled to come up 
from the midst of them. 

“ Fear not,” he said, “ because of the neighing of hor- 
ses', or the glittering of breast-plates. Seek not aid of the 
Egyptians, because of the enemy, though they may be 
numerous as locusts, and fierce as dragons. Their trust 
is not as our trust, nor their rock as our rock ; how else 
shall a thousand fly before one, and two put ten thousand 
to the flight ! I dreamed it in the visions of the night, and 
the voice said, ‘ Habakkuk, take thy fan and purge the 
wheat from the chaff, that they be notbotli consumed with 
the fire of indignation, and the lightning of fury.’ Where- 
fore, 1 say, take this Henry Morton — this wretched Achan, 
who hath brought the accursed thing among ye, and made 
himself brethren in the camp of the enemy — take him 
and stone him with stones, and thereafter burn him with 
fire, that the wrath may depart from the children of the 
Covenant. He hath not taken a Babylonish garment, but 
he hath sold the garment of righteousness to the woman 
of Babylon — he bath not taken two hundred shekels of 
fine silver, but he hath bartered the truth, which is more 
precious than shekels of silver or wedges of gold.” 

At this furious charge, brought so unexpectedly against 
one of their most active commanders, the audience broke 
out into open tumult, some demanding that there should 
instantly be a new election of officers, into which office 
none should hereafter be admitted who had, in their 
phrase, touched of that which was accursed, or temporiz- 
ed more or less with the heresies and corruptions of the 
times. While such was the demand of the Cameronians, 
they vociferated loudly, that those who were not with them 
were against them, — that it was no time to relinquish the 
substantial part of the covenanted testimony of the Church, 
if they expected a blessing on their arms and their cause , 
and that, in their eyes, a lukewarm presbyterian was 
little better than a Prelatist, an Anti-Covenanter, and a 
Nullifidian. 


OLD MORTALITY. 


181 


The parties accused repelled the charge of criminal 
compliance and defection from the truth, with scorn and 
indignation, and charged their accusers with breach of 
faith, as well as with wrong-headed and extravagant zeal 
•n introducing such divisions into an army, the joint 
strength of which could not, by the most sanguine, be 
judged more than sufficient to face their enemies. Pound- 
text, and one or two others, made some faint efforts to 
stem the increasing fury of the factious, exclaiming to 
those of the other party, in the words of the Patriarch, — 
“ Let there be no strife, I pray thee, between me and 
thee, and between thy herdsmen and my herdsmen, for 
we be brethren.” No pacific overture could possibly 
obtain audience. It was in vain that even Burley himself, 
when he saw the dissension proceed to such ruinous 
lengths, exerted his stern and deep voice, commanding 
silence and obedience to discipline. The spirit of insub- 
ordination had gone forth, and it seemed as if the exhor- 
tation of Habakkuk Mucklewralh had communicated a 
part of his frenzy to all who heard him. The wiser, or 
more timid part of the assembly, were already withdraw- 
ing themselves from the field, and giving up their cause as 
lost. Others were moderating an harmonious call, as they 
somewhat improperly termed it, to new officers, and dis- 
missing those formerly chosen, and that with a tumult and 
clamour worthy of the deficiency of good sense and good 
order implied in the whole transaction. It was at this 
moment when Morton arrived in the field, and joined the 
army, in total confusion, and on the point of dissolving it- 
self. His arrival occasioned loud exclamations of ap- 
plause on the one side, and of imprecation on the other. 

“ What means this ruinous disorder at such a mo- 
ment he exclaimed to Burley, who, exhausted with 
his vain exertions to restore order, was now leaning on 
his sword, and regarding the confusion with an eye of 
resolute despair. 

“ It means,” he replied “ that God has delivered us 
into the Iiands of our enemies.” 

16 von. n. 


182 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


“ Not so,” answered Morton, with a voice and ges- 
ture which compelled many to listen ; “ it is not God 
who deserts us, it is we who desert him, and dishonour 
ourselves by disgracing and betraying the cause of free- 
dom and religion. — Hear me,” he exclaimed, springing 
to the pulpit which Mucklew^ath had been compelled to 
evacuate by actual exhaustion — “ 1 bring from the enemy 
an offer to treat, if you incline to lay down your arms. 

I can assure you the means of making an honourable 
defence, if you are of more manly tempers. The time 
flies fast on. Let us resolve either for peace or war ; 
and let it not be said of us in future days, that six thou- 
sand Scottish men in arms had neither courage to stand 
their ground and fight it out, nor prudence to treat for 
peace, nor even the coward’s wisdom to retreat in good 
time and with safety. What signifies quarrelling on mi- 
nute points of church-discipline, when the whole edifice 
is threatened with total destruction 9 O, remember, my 
brethren, that the last and worst evil which God brought 
upon the people whom he had once chosen — the last and 
worst punishment of their blindness and hardness of 
heart, was the bloody dissensions which rent asunder 
their city, even when the enemy were thundering at its 
gates.” 

Some of the audience testified their feeling of this ex- 
hortation by loud exclamations of applause ; others by 
hooting, and exclaiming — “ To your tents, O Israel !” 

Morton, who beheld the columns of the enemy already 
beginning to appear on the right bank, and directing 
their march up6n the bridge, raised his voice to its ut- 
most pitch, and, pointing at the same time with his hand, • 
exclaimed, — “ Silence your senseless clamours, yonder 
is the enemy ! On maintaining the bridge against him 
depend our lives as well as our hope to reclaim our laws 
and liberties. — There shall at least one Scottishman die 
in their defence. — Let any one who loves his country 
follow me !” 

The multitude had turned their heads in the direction 
to which he pointed. The sight of the glittering files of 


OLD MORTALITY. 


183 


ihe English Foot-Guards, supported by several squadrons 
of horse, of the cannon which the artillery-men were busily 
engaged in planting against the bridge, of the plaided clans 
who seemed to search for a ford, and of the long suc- 
cession of troops which were destined to support the at- 
tack, silenced at once their clamorous uproar, and struck 
them with as much consternation as if it were an unex- 
pected apparition, and not the very thing which they 
ought to have been looking out for. They gazed on each 
other, and on their leaders, with looks resembling those 
that indicate the weakness of a patient when exhausted 
by a fit of phrenzy. Yet when Morton, springing from 
the rostrum, directed his steps towards the bridge, he 
was followed by about an hundred of the young men 
who were particularly attached to his command. 

Burley turned to Macbriar — “ Ephraim,” he said, “ it 
is Providence points us the way, through the worldly wis- 
dom of this latitudinarian youth. — He that loves the light, 
let him follow Burley!” 

“ Tarry,” replied Macbriar ; “ it is not by Henry Mor- 
ton, or such as he, that our goings-out and our com- 
ings-in are to be meted ; therefore tarry with us. 1 fear 
treachery to the host from this nullijidian Achan — Thou 
shalt not go with him. Thou art our chariots and our 
horsemen.” 

“ Hinder me not,” replied Burley ; “ he hath well 
said that all is lost if the enemy win the bridge — there- 
fore let me not. Shall the children of this generation be 
called wiser or braver than the children of the sanctuary 
— Array yourselves under your leaders — let us not lack 
upplies of men and ammunition ; and accursed be he 
who turneth back from the work on this great day !” 

Having thus spoken, he hastily marched towards the 
bridge, and was followed by about two hundred of the 
most gallant and zealous of his party. There was a 
’deep and disheartened pause when Morton and Burley 
departed. The commanders availed themselves of it to 
display their lines in some sort of order, and exhorted 
those who were most exposed to throw themselves upon 
their faces to avoid the cannonade which they might pre 


1B4 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


sently expect. The insurgents ceased to resist or. to re- 
monstrate ; but the awe which had silenced their discord 
had dismayed their courage. They suffered themselves 
to be formed into ranks with the docilie of a flock of 
sheep, but without possessing for the time, more resolu- 
tion or energy ; for they experienced a sinking of the 
heart, iUiposed by the sudden and imminent approach ol 
the danger which they had neglected to provide against, 
while it was yet distant. They were, however, drawn 
out with some regularity ; and as they still possessed 
the appearance of an army, their leaders had only to hope 
that some favourable circumstance would restore their 
spirits and courage. 

Kettledrummle, Poundtext, Macbriar, and other preach- 
ers, busied themselves in their ranks, and prevailed on 
them to raise a psalm. But the superstitious among them 
observed, as an ill omen, that their song of praise and 
triumph sunk into “ a quaver of consternation,” and re- 
sembled rather a penitentiary stave sung on the scaffold 
of a condemned criminal, than the bold strain which had 
resounded along the wild heath of Loudon-hill, in antici- 
pation of that day’s victory. The melancholy melody 
soon received a rough accompaniment ; the royal soldiers 
shouted, the Highlanders yelled, the cannon began to fire 
on one side, and the musquetry on both, and the bridge 
of Bothwell, with the banks adjacent, were involved in 
wreaths of smoke. 


OLD MORTALITY. 


185 


CHAPTER XIX. 

As e'er ye saw the rain down fa', 

Or yet the arrow from the bow, 

Sae our Scots lads fell even down, 

And they lay slain on every knowe. 

Old Ballad. 

Ere Morton or Burley had reached the post to be de- 
fended, the enemy had commenced an attack upon it 
with great spirit. The two regiments of Foot-Guards, 
formed into a close column, rushed forward to the river ; 
one corps, deploying along the right bank, commenced a 
galling fire on the defenders of the pass, while the other 
pressed on to occupy the bridge. The insurgents sus- 
tained the attack with great constancy and courage ; and 
while part of their number returned the fire across the 
river, the rest maintained a discharge of musquetry upon 
the further end of the bridge itself, and every avenue by 
which the soldiers endeavoured to approach it. The 
latter suffered severely, but still gained ground, and the 
head of their column was already upon the bridge, when 
the arrival of Morton changed the scene ; and his marks- 
men, commencing upon the pass a fire as well aimed as 
it was sustained and regular, compelled the assailants to 
retire with much loss. They were a second time brought 
up to the charge, and a second time repulsed with still 
greater loss, as Burley had now brought his party into 
action. The fire was continued with the utmost vehe- 
mence on both sides, and the issue of the action seemed 
very dubious. 

Monmouth, mounted on a superb white charger, might 
be discovered on the top of the right bank of the river, 
urging, entreating, and animating the exertions of his 
soldiers. By his orders, the cannon, which had hitherto 
been employed in annoying the distant main body of the 
16 * VOL. II. 


186 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


presbyterians, were now turned upon the defenders of the 
bridge. But these tremendous engines being wrought 
much more slowly than in modern times, did not produce 
the effect of annoying or terrifying the enemy to the extent 
proposed. The insurgents, sheltered by copsewood along 
the bank of the river, or stationed in the houses already 
mentioned, fought under cover, while the royalists, owing 
to the precautions of Morton, were entirely exposed . The 
defence was so protracted and obstinate, that the royal 
generals began to fear it might be ultimately successful. 
While Monmouth threw himself from his horse, and, ral- 
lying the Foot-Guards, brought them on to another close 
and desperate attack, he was warmly seconded by Dalzell, 
who, putting himself at the head of a body of Lennox 
Highlanders, rushed forward with their tremendous war- 
cry of Loch-sloy.*® The ammunition of the defenders of 
the bridge began to fail at this important crisis ; messages, 
commanding and imploring succours and supplies, were 
in vain despatched, one after the other, to the main body 
of the presbyterian army, which remained inactively 
drawn up on the open fields in the rear. Fear, con- 
sternation, and misrule, had gone abroad among them, 
and, while the post on which their safety depended re- 
quired to be instantly and powerfully reinforced, there 
remained none either to command or to obey. 

As the fire of the defenders of the bridge began to 
slacken, that of the assailants increased, and in its turn be- 
came more fatal. Animated by the example and exhorta- 
tions of their generals, they obtained a footing upon the 
bridge itself, and began to remove the obstacles by which 
it was blockaded. The portal-gate was broke open, the 
beams, trunks of trees, and other materials of the barricade 
pulled down and thrown into the river. This was not ac- 
complished without opposition. Morton and Burley 
fought in the very front of their followers, and encourag- 
ed them with their pikes, halberds, and partizans, to en- 
counter the bayonets of the Guards, and the broadswords 
of the Highlanders. But those behind the leaders begaii 
to shrink from the unequal combat, and fly singly, or in 


OI.D MORTALITY. 


187 


parties of two or three, towards the main body, until the 
remainder were, by the mere weight of the hostile col- 
umn as much as by their weapons, fairly forced from the 
bridge. The passage being now open, the enemy began 
to pour over. But the bridge was long and narrow, 
which rendered the manoeuvres slow as well as dangerous ; 
and those w^ho first passed had still to force the houses, 
from the windows of \vhich the Covenanters continued 
to fire. Burley and Morton were near each other at this 
critical moment. 

“ There is yet time,” said the former, “ to bring down 
horse to attack them ere they can get into order ; and, 
with the aid of God, we may thus regain the bridge — 
hasten thou to bring them down, while 1 make the de- 
fence good with this old and wearied body.” 

Morton saw the importance of the advice, and, throw- 
ing himself on the horse which Cuddie held in readiness 
for him behind the thicket, galloped towards a body of 
cavalry which chanced to be composed entirely of Cam- 
eronians. Ere he could speak his errand, or utter his 
orders he was saluted by the execrations of the whole 
body, 

“ He flies !” they exclaimed — “ the cowardly traitor 
flies like a hart from the hunters, and hath left valiant 
Burley in the midst of the slaughter !” 

“ I do not fly,” said Morton. “ I come to lead you to 
the attack. Advance boldly and we shall yet do well.” 

“Follow him not! — Follow him not I” — such were 
the tumultuous exclamations which resounded from the 
ranks ; “ he hath sold you to the sword of the enemy.” 

And while Morton argued, entreated, and commanded 
in vain, the moment was lost in which the advance might 
have been useful ; and the outlet from the bridge, with 
all its defences, being in complete possession of the ene- 
my. Burley and his remaining followers were driven back 
upon the main body, to whom the spectacle of their hur- 
ried and harassed retreat was far from restoring the con- 
fidence which they so much w^anted. 


188 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


In the meanwhile, the forces of the King crossed the 
bridge at their leisure, and, securing the pass, formed 
in line of battle ; while Claverhouse, who, like a hawk 
perched on a rock, and eyeing the time to pounce on its 
prey, had watched the event of the action from the oppo- 
site bank, now passed the bridge at the head of his cav- 
alry, at full trot, and, leading them in squadrons through 
the intervals and round the flanks of the royal infantry, form- 
ed them in line on the moor, and led them to the charge, 
advancing in front with one large body, while other two 
divisions threatened the flanks of the Covenanters. Their 
devoted army was now in that situation when the slight- 
est demonstration towards an attack was certain to inspire 
panic. Their broken spirits and disheartened courage 
were unable to endure the charge of the cavalry, attended 
with all its terrible accompaniments of sight and sound ; 
— the rush of the horses at full speed, the shaking of the 
earth under their feet, the glancing of the swords, the wav- 
ing of the plumes, and the fierce shouts of the cavaliers. 
The front ranks hardly attempted one ill-directed and dis- 
orderly fire, and their rear were broken and flying in confu- 
sion ere the charge had been completed ; and in less than 
five minutes the horsemen were mixed with them, cutting 
and hewing without mercy. The voice of Claverhouse 
was heard, even above the din of conflict, exclaiming tc 
his soldiers — “ Kill, kill — no quarter — think on Richard 
Grahame !” The dragoons, many of whom had shared 
the disgrace of Loudon-hill, required no exhortations to 
vengeance as easy as it was complete. Their swords 
drank deep of slaughter among the unresisting fugitives. 
Screams for quarter were only answered by the shouts 
with which the pursuers accompanied their blows, and 
the whole field presented one general scene of confused 
slaughter, flight and pursuit. About twelve hundred of 
the insurgents who remained in a body a little apart from 
the rest, and out of the line of the charge of cavalry, threw 
down their arms and surrendered at discretion, upon the 
approach of the Duke of Monmouth, at the head of the 
infantry. That inild-tempered nobleman instantly allow- 


OLD MORTALITY. 


189 


ed them the quarter which they prayed for ; and gallop- 
ing about through the field, exerted himself as much to 
stop the slaughter as he had done to obtain the victory 
While busied in this humane task he met with General 
Dalzell, who was encouraging the fierce Highlanders and 
royal volunteers to show their zeal for King and coun- 
try, by quenching the flame of the rebellion with the 
blood of the rebels. 

“ Sheathe your sword, I command you, General !” 
exclaimed the Duke, “ and sound the retreat. Enough 
of blood has been shed ; give quarter to the King’s mis- 
guided subjects.” 

“ I obey your Grace,” said the old man, wiping his 
bloody sword, and returning it to the scabbard ; “ but I 
warn you, at the same time, that enough has not been 
done to intimidate these desperate rebels. Has not your 
Grace heard that Basil Olifant has collected several gen- 
tlemen and men of substance in the west, and isi in the 
act of marching to join them *?” 

“ Basil Olifant ?” said the Duke, “ who, or what is he.^” 

“The next male heir to the last Earl of Torwood. 
He is disaffected to government from his claim to the 
estate being set aside in favour of La.dy Margaret Bellen- 
d(!n ; and I suppose the hope of getting the inheritance 
has set him in motion.” 

“ Be his motives what they will,” replied Monmouth, 
“ he must soon disperse his followers, for this army is 
too much broken to rally again. Therefore, once more, 
I command that the pursuit be stopped.” 

“ It is your Grace’s province to command, and to be 
responsible for your commands,” answered Dalzell, as 
he gave reluctant orders for checking the pursuit. 

But the fiery and vindictive Grahame was already far 
out of hearing of the signal of retreat, and continued with 
his cavalry an unwearied and bloody pursuit, breaking, 
dispersing, and cutting to pieces all the insurgents whom 
they could come up with. 

Burley and Morton were both hurried off the field by 
the confused tide of fugitives. They made some attempt 


190 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


to defend the streets of the town of Hamilton ; but, while 
labouring to induce the fliers to face about and stand to 
their weapons, Burley received a bullet which broke his 
sword-arm. 

“ May the hand be withered that shot the shot !” he 
exclaimed, as the sword which he was waving over his 
head fell powerless to his side. “ I can fight no longer.”* 

Then turning his horse’s head, he retreated out of the 
confusion. Morton also now saw that the continuing his 
unavailing efforts to rally the fliers could only end in his 
own death or captivity, and, followed by the faithful Cud- 
die, he extricated himself from the press, and, being well 
mounted, leaped his horse over one or two inclosures, 
and got into the open country. 

From the first hill which they gained in their flight, 
they looked back, and beheld the whole country covered 
with their fugitive companions, and with the pursuing 
dragoons, whose wild shouts and halloo, as they did exe- 
cution on the groups whom they overtook, mingled with 
the groans and screams of their victims, rose shrilly up 
the hill. 

“ It is impossible they can ever make head again,'’ 
said Morton. 

“ The head’s taen aff them as clean as I wad bite it 
aff a sybo!” rejoined Cuddie. “ Eh, lord ! see how 
the broad-swords are flashing ! war’s a fearsome thing. 
They’ll be cunning that catches me at this wark again.— 
But, for God’s sake, sir, let us mak for some strength!” 

Morton saw the necessity of following the advice of his 
trusty squire. They resumed a rapid pace, and continu- 
ed it without intermission, directing their course towards 
the wild and mountainous country, where they thought it 
likely some part of the fugitives might draw together for 
the sake either of making defence, or of obtaining terms. 

“ This incident, and Burley’s exclamation, are taken from the records 


OLD MORTALITY. 


19J 


CHAPTER XX. 

They require 

Of heaven the hearts of lions, breath of tigers, 

Yea, and the fierceness too. 

Fldcher. 

Evening had fallen ; and, for the last two hours, they 
had seen none of their ill-fated companions, when Mor- 
ton and his faithful attendant gained the moorland, and 
approached a large and solitary farm-house, situated in the 
entrance of a wild glen, far remote from any other habi- 
tation. 

“ Our horses,” said Morton, “ will carry us no farther 
without rest or food, and we must try to obtain them 
here, if possible.” 

So speaking, he led the way to the house. The place 
had every appearance of being inhabited. There was 
smoke issuing from the chimney, in a considerable vol- 
ume, and the marks of recent hoofs were visible around 
the door. They could even hear the murmuring of hu- 
man voices within the house. But all the lower windows 
were closely secured ; and, when they knocked at the 
door, no answer was returned. After vainly calling and 
entreating admittance, they withdrew to the stable, or 
shed, in order to accommodate their horses, ere they 
used farther means of gaining admission. In this place 
they found ten or twelve horses, whose state of 
fatigue, as well as the military yet disordered appearance 
of their saddles and accoutrements, plainly indicated that 
their owners were fugitive insurgents in their own cir- 
cumstances. 

“ This meeting bodes luck,” said Cuddie ; “ and they 
hae walth o’ beef, that’s ae thing certain, for here’s a 
raw hide that has been about the hurdies o’ a stot not 
half an hour syne - -it’s warm yet.” 


192 


TALES OF MY LAlVDLORD. 


Encouraged by these appearances, they returned again 
to the house, and announcing themselves as men m the 
same predicament with the inmates, clamoured loudly 
for admittance. 

“ Whoever ye be,” answered a stern voice from the 
window, after a long and obdurate silence, “ disturb not 
those who mourn for the desolation and captivity of the 
land, and search out the causes of wrath and of defection, 
that the stumbling-blocks may be removed over which 
we have stumbled.” 

“ They are wild western whigs,” said Cud die, in a 
whisper to his master, “ I ken by their language. Fiend 
hae me if I like to venture on them!” 

Morton, however, again called to the party within, and 
insisted on admittance ; but, finding his entreaties still 
disregarded, he opened one of the lower windows, and 
pushing asunder the shutters, which were but slightly se- 
cured, stepped into the large kitchen from which the 
voice had issued. Cuddie followed him, muttering be- 
twixt his teeth, as he put his head within the window, 
“ That he hoped there was nae scalding brose on the 
fire ;” and master and servant both found themselves in 
the company of ten or twelve armed men, seated around 
the fire on which refreshments were preparing, and busied 
apparently in their devotions. 

In the gloomy countenances, illuminated by the fire-light, 
Morton had no difficulty in recognizing several of those 
zealots who had most distinguished themselves by their in- 
temperate opposition to all moderate measures, together 
with their noted pastor, the fanatical Ephraim Macbriar, and 
the maniac, Habakkuk Mucklewrath. The Cameronians 
neither stirred tongue nor hand to welcome their brethren 
in misfortune, but continued to listen to the low murmur- 
ed exercise of Macbriar, as he prayed that the Almighty 
would lift up his hand from his people, and not make an 
end in the day of his anger. Tliat they were conscious 
of the presence of the intruders only appeared from the 
sullen and indignant glances which they shot at them, 
from time to time, as their eyes encountered. 


OLD MORTALITY. 


193 


Morton, finding into what unfriendly society he had 
unwittingly intruded, began to think of retreating ; but, 
on turning his head, observed with some alarm, that tw(j 
strong men had silently placed themselves beside the 
window through which they had entered. One of these 
ominous sentinels whispered to Cuddie, “ Son of that 
precious woman, Mause Headrigg, do not cast thy lot 
farther with this child of treachery and perdition — Pass 
on thy way, and tarry not, for the avenger of blood is 
behind thee.” 

With this he pointed to the window, out of which 
Cuddie jumped without hesitation ; for the intimation he 
had received plainly implied the personal danger he 
would otherwise incur. 

“ Winnocks are no lucky wi’ me,” was his first reflec- 
tion when he was in the open air ; his next was upon the 
probable fate of his master. “ They’ll kill him the mur- 
dering loons, and think they’re doing a gude turn ! but 
I’se tak the back road for Hamilton, and see if I canna 
get some o’ our ain folk to bring help in time of need- 
cessity.” 

So saying, Cuddie hastened to the stable, and, taking 
the best horse he could find instead of his own tired an- 
imal, he galloped off in the direction he proposed. 

The noise of his horse’s tread alarmed for an instant 
the devotion of the fanatics. As it died in the distance, 
Macbriar brought his exercise to a conclusion, and his 
audience raised themselves from the stooping posture, and 
louring downward look with which they had listened to 
it, and all fixed their eyes sternly on Henry Morton. 

“ You bend strange countenances on me, gentlemen,” 
said he, addressing them. “ I am totally ignorant in 
what manner I can have deserved them.” 

“ Out upon thee ! out upon thee !” exclaimed Muck- 
lewrath, starting up : “ the word that thou has spurned 
shall become a rock to crush and to bruise thee ; the 
spear which thou wouldst have broken shall pierce thy 
side ; we have prayed, and wrestled, and petitioned, for 
17 VOL. II. 


194 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


an offering to atone the sins of the congregation, and, lo , 
the very head of the offence is delivered into our hand. 
He hath burst in like a thief through the window ; he is 
a ratn caught in the thicket, whose blood shall be a drink- 
offering to redeem vengeance from the church, and the 
place shall from henceforth be called Jehovah-Jirah, for 
the sacrifice is provided. Up, then, and bind the victim 
with cords to the horns of the altar !” 

There was a movement among the party ; and deeply 
did Morton regret at that moment the incautious haste 
with which he had ventjred into their company. He 
was armed only with his sword, for he had left his pistols 
at the bow of his saddle, and as the whigs were all pro- 
vided with fire-arms, there was little or no chance of 
escaping from them by resistance. The interposition, 
however, of Macbriar, protected him for the moment. 

“ Tarry yet a while, brethren — let us not use the 
the sword rashly, lest the load of innocent blood lie heavy 
on us. — Come,” he said, addressing himself to Morton, 
“ we will reckon with thee ere we avenge the cause thou 
hast betrayed. Hast thou not,” he continued, “ made 
thy face as hard as flint against the truth in all the assem- 
blies of the host T’ 

“ He has — he has,” murmured the deep voices of the 
assistants. 

“ He hath ever urged peace with the malignants,” 
said one. 

“ And pleaded for the dark and dismal guilt of the 
Indulgence,” said another. 

“ And would have surrendered the host into the hands 
of Monmouth,” echoed a third ; “ and was the first to 
desert the honest and manly Burley, while he yet resisted 
at the pass. I saw him on the moor, with his horse 
oloody with spurring, long ere the firing had ceased at 
the bridge. 

“ Gentlemen,” said Morton, “ if you mean to beat 
me down by clamour, and take my life without hearing 
me, it is perhaps a thing in your power ; but you will sin 


OLD MORTALITY. 


195 


before God and man by the commission of such a mur- 
der.” 

“ I say, hear the youth,” said Macbriar, “ for Heaved 
knows our bowels have yearned for him, that he might be 
brought to see the truth, and exert his gifts in its defence. 
But he is blinded by his carnal knowledge, and has 
spurned the light when it blazed before him.” 

Silence being obtained, Morton proceeded to assert the 
good faith which he had displayed in the treaty with 
Monmouth, and the active part he had borne in the sub- 
sequent action. 

“ I may not, gentlemen,” he said, “ be fully able to 
go the lengths you desire, in assigning to those of my own 
religion the means of tyrannizing over others ; but none 
shall go farther in asserting our own lawful freedom. And 
I must needs aver, that had others been of my mind in 
counsel, or disposed to stand by my side in battle, we 
should this evening, instead of being a defeated and dis- 
cordant remnant, have sheathed our weapons in an useful 
and honourable peace, or brandished them triumphantly 
after a decisive victory.” 

“ He hath spoken the word,” said one of the assem- 
bly — “ he hath avowed his carnal self-seeking and Eras- 
tianism ; let him die the death !” 

“ Peace yet again,” said Macbriar, “ for I will try 
him further. — Was it not by thy means that the malig- 
nant Evandale twice escaped from death and captivity 9 
Was it not through thee that Miles Bellenden and his 
garrison of cut-throats were saved from the edge of the 
sword ?” 

“ I am proud to say, that you have spoken the truth in 
both instances,” replied Morton. 

“ Lo ! you see,” said Macbriar, “ again hath his 
mouth spoken it. — And didst thou not do this for the sake 
of a Midianitish woman, one of the spawn of prelacy, a 
toy with which the arch-enemy’s trap is baited % Didst 
thou not do all this for the sake of Edith Bellenden 9” 

“ You are incapable,” answered Morton, boldly, “ of 
appreciating my feelings towards that young lady ; but all 


190 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


that I have done I would have done had she never ex- 
isted.” 

“Thou ait a hardy rebel to the truth,” said another dark- 
browed man ; “ and didst thou not so act, that by convey- 
ing away the aged woman, Margaret Bellenden, and her 
grand-daughter, thou niightest thwart the wise and godly 
project of John Balfour of Burley for bringing forth to bat- 
tle Basil Olifant, who had agreed to take the field if he were 
insured possession of these women’s worldly endowments?’ 

“ I never heard of such a scheme,” said Morton, 
“ and therefore I could not thwart it. — But does your 
religion permit you to take such uncreditable and immor- 
al modes of recruiting 9” 

“ Peace,” said Macbriar, somewhat disconcerted 
“ it is not for thee to instruct tender professors, or to 
construe Covenant obligations. For the rest you have 
acknowledged enough of sin and sorrowful defection to 
draw down defeat on a host, were it as numerous as the 
sands on the sea-shore. And it is our judgment, that we 
are not free to let you pass from us safe and in life, since 
Providence hath given you into our hands at the moment 
that we prayed with godly Joshua, saying, ‘ What shall 
we say when Israel turneth their backs before their ene- 
mies .^’^Then earnest thou, delivered to us as it were by 
lot, that thou mightest sustain the punishment of one that 
hath wrought folly in Israel. Therefore, mark my words. 
This is the Sabbath, and our hand shall not be on thee to 
spill thy blood upon this day ; but, when the twelfth hour 
shall strike, it is a token that thy time on earth hath run ! 
Wherefore improve thy span, for it flitteth fast away. — 
Seize on the prisoner, brethren, and take his weapon.” 

The command was so unexpectedly given, and so sud 
denly executed by those of the party who had gradually 
closed behind and around Morton, that he was overpow- 
ered, disarmed, and a horse-girth passed round his arms, 
before he could offer any effectual resistance. When 
this was accomplished, a dead and stern silence took place. 
The fanatics ranged themselves around a large oaken 
table, placing Morton amongst them bound and helpless, 
in such a manner as to be opposite to the clock which was 


01-D MORTALITY. 


197 


10 strike his knell. Food was placed before them, of 
which they offered their intended victim a share ; but, it 
will readily be believed, he had little appetite. When 
this was removed, the party resumed their devotions. Mac- 
briar, whose fierce zeal did not perhaps exclude some feel- 
ings of doubt and compunction, began to expostulate in 
prayer, as if to wring from the Deity a signal that the 
bloody sacrifice they proposed was an acceptable service. 
The eyes and ears of his hearers were anxiously strained, 
aS if to gain some sight or sound which might be converted 
or wrested into a type of approbation, and ever and anon 
dark looks were turned on the dial-plate of the time-piece 
to watch its progress towards the moment of execution. 

Morton’s eye frequently took the same course with the 
sad reflection, that there appeared no possibility of his 
life being expanded beyond the narrow segment which 
the index had yet to travel on the circle until it arrived 
at the fatal hour. Faith in his religion, with a constant 
unyielding principle of honour, and the sense of conscious 
innocence, enabled him to pass through this dreadful in- 
terval with less agitation than he himself could have ex- 
pected, had the situation been prophesied to him. Yet 
there was a want of that eager and animating sense of 
right which supported him in similar circumstances, when 
in the power of Claverhouse. Then he was conscious 
that, amid the spectators, were many who were lament- 
ing his condition, and some who applauded his conduct. 
But now, among these pale-eyed and ferocious zealots, 
whose hardened brows were soon to be bent, not merely 
with indifference, but with triumph, upon his execution, — 
without a friend to speak a kindly word, or give a look 
either of sympathy or encouragement, — awaiting till the 
sword destined to slay him crept out of the scabbard 
gradually, and as it were by straw-breadths, and condemn- 
ed to drink the bitterness of death drop by drop, — it is no 
wonder that his feelings were less composed than they 
had been on any former occasion of danger. His des 
tined executioners, as he gazed around them, seemed to 
alter their forms and features, like spectres in a fever 
17 * VOL. II. 


198 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


ish dream ; their figares became larger, and their faces 
more disturbed ; and, as an excited imagination predom- 
inated over the realities which his eyes received, he could 
have thought himself surrounded rather by a band of 
demons than of human beings ; the walls seemed to drop 
with blood, and the light tick of the clock thrilled on his 
ear with such loud, painful distinctness, as if each sound 
were the prick of a bodkin inflicted on the naked nerve 
of the organ. 

It was with pain that he felt his mind wavering while 
on the brink between this and the future world. He 
made a strong effort to compose himself to devotional 
exercises, and unequal, during that fearful strife of na- 
ture, to arrange his own thoughts into suitable expressions, 
he had, instinctively, recourse to the petition for deliver- 
ance and for composure of spirit which is to be found in 
the Book of Common Prayer of the Church of Eng- 
land. Macbriar, whose family were of that persuasion, 
instantly recognized the words which the unfortunate 
prisoner pronounced half aloud. 

“ There lacked but this,” he said, his pale cheek 
kindling with resentment, “ to root out my carnal reluct- 
ance to see his blood spilt. He is a Prelatist who has 
sought the camp under the disguise of an Erastian, and 
all, and more than all, that has been said of him must 
needs be verity. His blood be on his head, the deceiv- 
er ! — let him go down to Tophet with the ill-mumbled 
mass which he calls a prayer-book in his right hand!” 

“ I take up my song against him !” exclaimed the 
maniac. “ As the sun went back on the dial ten degrees 
for intimating the recovery of holy Hezekiah, so shall it 
now go forward, that the wicked may be taken away from 
among the people, and the Covenant established in its 
purity.” 

He sprang to a chair with an attitude of frenzy, in or- 
der to anticipate the fatal moment by putting the index 
forward ; and several of the party began to make ready 
llieir slaughter-weapons for immediate execution, when 
Mucklewrath’s hand was arrested by one of his com- 
panions. 


OLD MORTALITY. 


199 


“ Hist !” he said — “ I hear a distant noise.” 

“ It is the rushing of the biook over the pebbles,” 
said one. 

“ [t is the sough of the wind among the bracken,” 
said another. 

“ It is the galloping of horse,” said Morton to himself, 
his sense of hearing rendered acute by the dreadful situ- 
ation in which he stood ; ‘‘ God grant they may come as 
my deliverers !” 

The noise approached rapidly, and became more and 
more distinct. 

“ It is horse,” cried Macbriar. “ Look out and 
descry who they are.” 

“ The enemy are upon us!” cried one who had open- 
ed the window, in obedience to his order. 

A thick trampling and loud voices were heard immedi- 
ately round the house. Some rose to resist, and some 
to escape ; the doors and windows were forced at once, 
and the red coats of the troopers appeared in the apart- 
ment. 

“ Have at the bloody rebels ! — Remember Cornet 
Grahame !” was shouted on every side. 

The lights were struck down, but the dubious glare of 
the fire enabled them to continue the fray. Several pistol- 
shots were fired ; the whig who stood next to Morton re- 
ceived a shot as he was rising, stumbled against the pris- 
oner, whom he bore down with his weight, and lay stretched 
above him a dying man. This accident probably saved 
Morton from the damage he might otherwise have received 
in so close a struggle, where fire-arms were dischar2;ed 
and sword-blows given for upwards of five minutes. 

“ Is the prisoner safe ?” exclaimed the well-known 
voice of Claverhouse ; look about for him, and de- 
spatch the whig dog who is groaning there.” 

Both orders were executed. The groans of the 
wounded man were silenced by a thrust with a rapier, 
and Morton, disencumbered of his weight, was speedily 
raised and in the arms of the faithful Cuddie, who blub- 
bered for joy when he found that the blood vvith whicli 


200 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


hiS master was covered had not flowed from his own veins 
A whisper in Morton’s ear, while his trusty follower re- 
lieved him from his bonds, explained the secret of the 
very timely appearance of the soldiers. 

“ I fell into Claverhouse’s party when I was seeking for 
some o’ our ain folk to help ye out o’ the hands o’ the whigs, 
sae being atween the deil and the deep sea, I e’en thought 
it best to bring him on wi’ me, for he’ll be wearied wi’ 
felling folk the night, an the morn’s a new day, and Lord 
Ev andale awes ye a day in ha’arst ; and Monmouth gies 
quarter, the dragoons tell me, for the asking. Sae baud up 
your heart, an’ I’se warrant we’ll do a’ weel enough yet.”^^ 


CHAPTER XXL 

Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife ! 

To all the sensual world proclaim. 

One crowded hour of glorious life 
Is worth an age without a name. 

Atumijmous. 

When the desperate affray had ceased, Claverhouse 
commanded his soldiers to remove the dead bodies, to 
refresh themselves and their horses, and prepare for 
passing the night at the farm-house, and for marching 
early in the ensuing morning. He then turned his atten- 
tion to Morton, and there was politeness, and even kind- 
ness, in the manner in which he addressed him. 

“ You would have saved yourself risk from both sides, 
Mr. Morton, if you had honoured my counsel yesterday 
morning with some attention ; but I respect your mo- 
tives. You are a prisoner-of-war at the disposal of the 
King and council, but you shall be treated with no inci- 
vility ; and I will be satisfied with your parole that yoBt 
will not attempt an escape.” 


OLD MORTALITY. 


201 


When Morton had passed his word to that effect, Cla- 
verhouse bowed civilly, and, turning away from him, 
called for his sergeant-major. 

“ How many prisoners, Halliday, and how man^ 
killed 9” 

“ Three killed in the house, sir, two cut down in the 
court, and one in the garden — six in all ; four prison- 
ers.” 

“ Armed or unarmed 9” said Claverhouse. 

“ Three of them armed to the teeth,” answered Halli- 
day ; “ one without arms — he seems to be a preacher.” 

“Ay — the trumpeter to the long-ear’d rout, I sup- 
pose,” replied Claverhouse, glancing slightly round upon 
his victims, “ T will talk with him to-morrow. Take the 
other three down to the yard, draw out two files, and fire 
upon them ; and, d’ye hear, make a memorandum in the 
orderly-book, of three rebels taken in arms and shot, 
with the date and name of the place — Drumshinnel, I 
think, they call it.— Look after the preacher till to-mor- 
row ; as he was not armed, he must undergo a short ex- 
amination. Or better, perhaps, lake him before the Privy 
Council ; I think they should relieve me of a share of this 
disgusting drudgery. — Let Mr. Morton be civilly used, and 
see that the men look well after their horses ; and let my 
groom wash Wildblood’s shoulder with some vinegar, the 
saddle has touched him a little.” 

All these various orders, — for life and death, the se- 
curing of his prisoners, and the washing his charger’s 
shoulder, — were given in the same unmoved and equable 
voice, of which no accent or tone intimated that the 
speaker considered one direction as of more importance 
than another. 

The Cameronians, so lately about to be the willing 
agents of a bloody execution, were now themselves to 
undergo it. They seemed prepared alike for either ex- 
tremity, nor did any of them show the least sign of fear, 
when ordered to leave the room for the purpose of meet- 
ing instant death. Their severe enthusiasm sustained 
them in that dreadful moment, and they departed with a 


202 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


firm look and in silence, excepting that one of them, as 
he left the apartment, looked Claverhouse full in the face, 
and pronounced, with a stern and steady voice, — “ Mis- 
chief shall haunt the violent man !” to which Grahame 
only answered by a smile of contempt. 

They had no sooner left the room than Claverhouse 
applied himself to some food, which one or two of his 
party had hastily provided, and invited Morton to follow 
his example, observing, it had been a busy day for them 
both. Morton declined eating ; for the sudden change 
of circumstances — the transition from the verge of the 
grave to a prospect of life, had occasioned a dizzy revul- 
sion in his whole system. But the same confused sen- 
sation was accompanied by a burning thirst, and he ex- 
pressed his wish to drink. 

“ 1 will pledge you, with all my heart,” said Claver- 
house ! “ for here is a black jack full of ale, and good it 
must be, if there be good in the country, for the whigs 
never miss to find it out. — My service to you, Mr. Mor- 
ton,” he said, filling one horn of ale for himself, and 
handing another to his prisoner. 

Morton raised it to his head, and was just about to 
drink, when the discharge of carabines beneath th-e win- 
dow, followed by a deep and hollow groan, repeated 
twice or thrice, and more faint at each interval, announc- 
ed the fate of the three men who had just left them. 
Morton shuddered, and set down the untasted cup. 

“ You are but young in these matters, Mr. Morton,” 
said Claverhouse, after he had very composedly finished 
his draught ; “ and I do not think the worse of you as a 
young soldier for appearing to feel them acutely. But 
habit, duty, and necessity, reconcile men to every thing.” 

“ I trust,” said Morton, “ they will never reconcile 
me to such scenes as these.” 

“ You would hardly believe,” said Claverhouse in re- 
ply, “ that, in the beginning of my military career, I had 
as much aversion to seeing blood spilt as ever man felt ; 
it seemed to me to be wrung from my own heart ; and 
yet, if you trust one of those whig fellows, he will tell you 


OLD MORTAI.iTY. 


203 


I drink a warm cup of it every morning before [ breakfast.*^ 
But, in truth, Mr. Morton, why should we care so much 
for death, light upon us or around us whenever it may ? 
Men die daily — not a bell tolls the hour, but it is the death- 
note of some one or other ; and why hesitate to shorten 
the span of others, or take over-anxious care to prolong 
our own 9 It is all a lottery — when the hour of midnight 
came, you were to die — it has struck, you are alive and 
safe, and the lot has fallen on those fellows who were to 
murder you. It is not the expiring pang that is worth 
thinking of in an event that must happen one day, and 
may befall us on any given moment — it is the memory 
which the soldier leaves behind him, like the long train of 
light that follows the sunken sun — that is all which is 
worth caring for, which distinguishes the death of the 
brave or the ignoble. When I think of death, Mr. Mor- 
ton, as a thing worth thinking of, it is in the hope of 
pressing one day some well-fought and hard-won field of 
battle, and dying with the shout of victory in my ear — 
that would be worth dying for, and more, it would be 
worth having lived for!” 

At the moment when Grahame delivered these senti- 
ments, his eye glancing with the martial enthusiasm which 
formed such a prominent feature in his character, a gory 
figure, which seemed to rise out of the floor of the apart- 
ment, stood upright before him, and presented the wild 
person and hideous features of the maniac so often men- 
tioned. His face, where it was not covered with blood- 
streaks, was ghastly pale, for the hand of death was on 
him. He bent upon Claverhouse eyes, in which the grey 
light of insanity still twinkled, though just about to flit for 
ever, and exclaimed, with his usual wildness of ejacula- 
tion, “ Wilt thou trust in thy bow and in thy spear, in 
thy steed and in thy banner And shall not God visit 
thee for innocent blood — Wilt thou glory in thy wis- 
dom, and in thy courage, and in thy might 9 And shall 
not the Lord judge thee 9 — Behold the princes, for 
whom thou hast sold thy soul to the destroyer, shall be 
removed from their place, and banished to other lands, 


204 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


and their names shall be a desolation, and an astonish- 
ment, and a hissing, and a curse. And thou, who hast par- 
taken of the wine-cup of fury, and hast been drunken and 
mad because thereof, the wish of thy heart shall be 
granted to thy loss, and the hope of thine own pride shall 
destroy thee. I summon thee, John Grahame, to appear 
before the tribunal of God, to answer for this innocent 
blood, and the seas besides which thou hast shed.” 

He drew his right hand across his bleeding face, and 
held it up to Heaven as he uttered these words, which he 
spoke very loud, and then added more faintly, “ How 
long, O Lord, holy and true, dost thou not judge and 
avenge the blood of thy saints 1 ” 

As he uttered the last word he fell backwards without 
an attempt to save himself, and was a dead man ere his 
head touched the floor. 

Morton was much shocked at this extraordinary scene, 
and the prophecy of the dying man, which tallied so 
strangely with the wish which Claverhouse had just ex- 
pressed ; and he often thought of it afterwards when 
that wish seemed to be accomplished. Two of the dra- 
goons who were in the apartment, hardened as they were, 
and accustomed to such scenes,, showed great consterna- 
tion at the sudden apparition, the event, and the words 
which preceded it. Claverhouse alone was unmoved. 
At the first instant of Mucklewrath’s appearance, he had 
put his hand to his pistol, but on seeing the situation of the 
wounded wretch, he immediately withdrew it, and listened 
with great composure to his dying exclamation. 

When he dropped, Claverhouse asked in an unconcern- 
ed tone of voice — “ How came the fellow here — Speak, 
you staring fool !” he added, addressing the nearest dra- 
goon, “ unless you would have me think you such a pol- 
troon as to fear a dying man.” 

The dragoon crossed himself, and replied with a falter- 
ing voice, — “ That the dead fellow had escaped their 
notice when they removed the other bodies, as he chanced 
to have fallen where a cloak or two had been flung aside 
and covered him. 


OLD MORTALITY. 


205 


“ Take him away now, then, you gaping idiot, and see 
ihat he does not bite you, to put an old proverb to shame. 
This is a new incident, Mr. Morton, that dead men should 
rise and push us from our stools. I must see that ray 
blackguards grind their swords sharper ; they used not 
to do their work so slovenly. — But we have had a busy 
day ; they are tired, and their blades blunted with their 
bloody work ; and 1 suppose you, Mr. Morton, as well as 
, are well disposed for a few hours repose.” 

So saying, ne yawned, and taking a candle which a 
soldier had placed ready, saluted Morton courteously, 
and walked to the apartment which had been prepared 
for him. 

Morton was also accommodated for the evening, with 
a separate room. Being left alone, his first occupation 
was the returning thanks to Heaven for redeeming him 
from danger, even through the instrumentality of those 
who seemed his most dangerous enemies ; he also pray- 
ed sincerely for the Divine assistance in guiding his course 
through times which held out so many dangers and so 
many errors. And having thus poured out his spirit in 
prayer before the Great Being who gave it, he betook 
himself to the repose which he so much required. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

The charge is prepared, the lawyers are met, 

The judges all ranged— a terrible show ! 

Beggar^s Opera. 

So deep was the slumber which succeeded the agitation 
and embarrassment of the preceding day, that Morton 
hardly knew where he was when it was broken by the 
tramp of horses, the hoarse voice of men, and the wild 
sound ol’ the trumpets blowing the reveille. The ser- 
18 voi.. Ji. 


206 


TALES or MY LANDLORD. 


geant-major immediately afterwards came to summon him, 
which he did in a very respectful manner, saying the Gen- 
era] (for Claverhouse now held that rank) hoped for the 
pleasure of his company upon the road. In some situa- 
tions an intimation is a command, and Morton considered 
that the present occasion was one of these. He wailed 
upon Claverhouse as speedily as he could, found his own 
horse saddled for his use, and Cuddie in attendance. 
Both were deprived of their fire-arms, though they seem- 
ed, otherwise, rather to make part of the troop than of 
the prisoners ; and Morton was permitted to retain his 
sword, the wearing which was, in those days, the distin- 
guishing mark of a gentleman. Claverhouse seemed also 
to take pleasure in riding beside him, in conversing with 
him, and in confounding his ideas wdien he attempted to 
appreciate his real character. The gentleness and urban- 
ity of that officer’s general manners, the high and chivalrous 
sentiments of military devotion which he occasionally ex- 
pressed, his deep and accurate insight into the human bosom, 
demanded at once the approbation and the wonder of those 
who conversed with him ; while, on the other hand, his 
cold indifference to military violence and cruelty seemed 
altogether inconsistent with the social, and even admirable 
qualities which he displayed. Morton could not help, in 
his heart, contrasting him with Balfour of Burley ; and 
so deeply did the idea impress him, that he dropped a hint 
of it as they rode together at some distance from the trooj). 

You are right,” said Claverhouse, with a smile ; “ you 
are very right — we are both fanatics ; but there is some 
distinction between the fanaticism of honour and that of 
dark and sullen superstition.” 

‘‘ Yet you both shed blood without mercy or remorse,” 
said Morton, who could not suppress his feelings. 

“ Surely,” said Claverhouse, with the same composure ; 

but of what kind — There is a difference, I trust, be- 
tween the blood of learned and reverend prelates and 
scholars, of gallant soldiers and noble gentlemen, and the 
red puddle that stagnates in the veins of psalm-singing 
mechanics, crack brained demagogues, and sullen boors : 


OLD MORTALITY. 


207 


^some distinction, in short, between spilling a flask of 
generous wine, and dashing down a cann full of base 
muddy ale 

“ Your distinction is too nice for my comprehension,” 
replied Morton. “ God gives every spark of life — that 
of the peasant as well as of the prince ; and those who 
destroy his work recklessly or causelessly, must answer 
in either case. What right, for example, have I to Gen- 
eral Grahame’s protection now, more than when I first 
met him 

“ And narrowly escaped the consequences, you would 
say?” answered Claverhouse — “ why, I will answer you 
frankly. Then I thought I had to do with the son of an 
old roundheaded rebel, and the nephew of a sordid pres- 
byterian laird ; now I know your points better, and there 
is that about you which I respect in an enemy as much as 
1 like in a friend. I have learned a good deal concerning 
you since our first meeting, and I trust that you have found 
that my construction of the information has not been un- 
favourable to you.” 

“ But yet,” said Morton 

“ But yet,” interrupted Grahame, taking up the word, 
“ you would say you were the same when I first met you 
that you are now 9 True ; but then, how could I know 
that 9 though, by the by, even my reluctance to suspend 
your execution may show you how high your abilities 
stood in my estimation.” 

“ Do you expect, General,” said Morton, “ that I ought 
to be particularly grateful for such a mark of your es- 
teem 9” 

“ Poh ! poh ! you are critical,” returned Claverhouse. 

I tell you I thought you a different sort of person. Did 
you ever read Froissart 9” 

“ No,” was Morton’s answer. 

“ I have half a mind,” said Claverhouse, “ to contrive 
you should have six months’ imprisonment, in order to 
procure you that pleasure. His chapters inspire me with 
more enthusiasm than even poetry itself. And the nob e 
canon, with what true rhivnlrous fi'^ling he confines his 


208 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


beautiful expressions of sorrow to the death of the gallant 
and high-brod knight, of whom it was a pity to see the 
fall, such was his loyalty to his king, pure faith to his re- 
ligion, hardihood towards his enemy, and fidelity to his 
lady-love ! — Ah,benedicite ! how he will mourn over the 
fall of such a pearl of knighthood, be it on the side he 
happens to favour, or on the other. But, truly, for sweep- 
ing from the face of the earth some few hundreds of vil- 
lain churls, who are born but to plough it, the high-born 
and inquisitive historian has marvellous little sympathy, — 
as little, or less, perhaps, than John Grahame of Claver- 
house.” 

“ There is one ploughman in your possession. General, 
for whom,” said Morton, “ in despite of the contempt in 
wdiich you hold a profession which some philosophers have 
considered as useful as that of a soldier, I would humbly 
request your favour.” 

“ You mean,” said Claverhouse, looking at a memo- 
randum book, “ one Hatherick — Hedderick — or — or — 
Headrigg, Ay, Cuthbert, or Cuddie Headrigg — here I 
have him. O, never fear him, if he will be but tractable. 
The ladies of Tillietudlem made interest with me on his 
account some time ago. He is to marry their waiting-maid, 
I think. He will be allowed to slip off easy, unless his 
obstinacy spoils his good fortune.” 

“ He has no ambition to be a martyr, 1 believe,” said 
Morton. 

‘‘ ’Tis the better for him,” said Claverhouse. “ But, 
besides, although the fellow had more to answer for, 1 
should stand his friend, for the sake of the blundering 
gallantry which threw him into the midst of our ranks las 
night, when seeking assistance for you. I never deser 
any man who trusts me with such implicit confidence. 
But, to deal sincerely with you, he has been long in our 
eye. — Here, Halliday ; bring me up the black book.” 

The sergeant, having committed to his commander this 
ominous record of the disaffected, which was arranged in 
alphabetical order, Claverhouse, turning over the leaves 
AS he rode on, began to read names as they occurred. 


OLD MORTALITY. 


209 


“ Gumbleguinption, a minister, aged 60, indulged, 
close, sly, and so forth — Pooh ! pooh ! — He — He — I 
have him here — Heathercat : outlawed — a preacher — a 
zealous Cameronian — Keeps a conventicle among the 
Campsie hills — Tush ! — O, here is Headrigg — Cuthbcrt , 
his mother a bitter puritan — himself a simple fellow — likei> 
to be forward in action, but of no genius for plots — more 
for the hand than the head, and might be drawn to the 

right side, but for his attachment to” (Here Claver- 

house looked at Morion, and then shut the book and chang- 
ed his tone.) “ Faithful and true are words never thrown 
away upon me, Mr. Morton. You may depend on the 
young man’s safety.” 

“ Does it not revolt a mind like yours,” said Morton, 
“ to follow a system which is to be supported by such 
minute inquiries after obscure individuals *?” 

“ You do not suppose we take the trouble ?” said the 
General, haughtily. “ The curates, for their own sakes, 
willingly collect all these materials for their own legulation 
in each parish ; they know best the black sheep of the 
flock. I have had your picture for three years.” 

“ Indeed T’ replied Morton. “ Will you favour me 
by imparting it 

“ Willingly,” said Claverhouse ; “ it can signify little, 
for you cannot avenge yourself on the curate, as you will 
probably leave Scotland for some time.” 

This was spoken in an indifferent tone. Morton felt 
an involuntary shudder at hearing words which implied a 
banishment from his native land ; but ere he answered, 
Claverhouse proceeded to read, “ Henry Morton, son of 
Silas Morton, Colonel of horse for the Scottish Parliament, 
nephew and apparent heir of Morton of Mllnwood — imper- 
fectly educated, but with spirit beyond hisyears — excellent 
at all exercises — indifferent to forms of religion, but seems 
to incline to the presbyterian — has high-flown and danger- 
ous notions about liberty of thought and speech, and hovers 
between a latitudinarian and an enthusiast. Much ad- 
mired and followed by the youth of his own age — modest, 
18 * VOL. II. 


210 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


quiet, and unassuming in manner, but in his heart pecu- 
liarly bold and intractable. He is” “ Here follow 

three red crosses, Mr. Morton, which signify triply dan- 
gerous. You see how important a person you are. — But 
what does this fellow want V’ 

A. horseman rode up as he spoke, and gave a letter. 
Claverhouse glanced it over, laughed scornfully, bade him 
tell his master to send his prisoners to Edinburgh, for 
there was no answer ; and, as the man turned back, said 
contemptuously to Morton — “ Here is an ally of yours 
deserted from you, or rather, I should say, an ally of your 
good friend Burley — Hear how he sets forth — ‘ Dear 
Sir,^ (I wonder when we were such intimates,) ‘ may it 
please your Excellency to accept my humble congratula- 
tions on the victory’ — hum — hum — ‘ blessed his Majesty’s 
army. 1 pray you to understand I have my people un- 
der arms to take and intercept all fugitives, and have al- 
ready several prisoners,’ and so forth. Subscribed Basil 
Olifant — You know the fellow by name, I suppose 

A relative of Lady Margaret Bellenden,” replied 
Morton, “ is he not 

“ Ay,” replied Grahame, “ and heir-male of her fath- 
er’s family, though a distant one, and moreover a suitor 
to the fair Edith, though discarded as an unworthy one ; 
but, above all, a devoted admirer of the estate of Tillie- 
tudlern, and all thereunto belonging.” 

“ He takes an ill mode of recommending himself,” said 
Morton, suppressing his feelings, “ to the family at Tillie- 
tudlem, by corresponding with our unhappy party.” 

“ O, this precious Basil will turn cat in pan with any 
man !” replied Claverhouse. “ He was displeased with 
the government, because they would not overturn in his 
favour a settlement of the late Earl of Torwood, by which 
his lordship gave his own estate to his own daughter ; he 
was displeased with X^ady Margaret, because she avowed 
no desire for his alliance, and with the pretty Edith, be- 
cause she did not like his tall ungainly person. So he held 
a close correspondence with Burley, and raised his follow- 
ers with the purpose of helping him, providing always he 
needed no help, that is, if you had beat us yesterday. 


OLD MORTALITY. 


211 


And now the rascal pretends he was all the while propos- 
ing the King’s service, and, for aught I know, the council 
will receive his pretext for current coin, for he knows how 
to make friends among^them — and a dozen scores of poor 
vagabond fanatics will be shot, or hanged, while this cun- 
ning scoundrel lies hid under the double cloak of loyaltjr, 
well-lined with the fox-fur of hypocrisy.” 

With conversation on this and other matters they be- 
guiled the way, Claverhouse all the while speaking with 
great frankness to Morton, and treating him rather as a 
friend and companion than as a prisoner ; so that, how- 
ever uncertain of his fate, the hours he passed in the com- 
pany of this remarkable man were so much lightened hy 
the varied play of his imagination, and the depth of his 
knowledge of human nature, that since the period of his 
becoming a prisoner of war, which relieved him at once 
from the cares of his doubtful and dangerous station 
among the insurgents, and from the consequences of their 
suspicious resentment, his hours flowed on less anxiously 
than at any time since his having commenced actor in 
public life. He was now, with respect to his fortune, like 
a rider who has flung his reins on the horse’s neck, and, 
while he abandoned himself to circumstances, was at least 
relieved from the task of attempting to direct them. In 
this mood he journeyed on, the number of his compan- 
ions being continually augmented by detached parties of 
horse who came in from every quarter of the country, 
bringing with them, for the most part, the unfortunate per- 
sons who had fallen into their power. At length they 
approached Edinburgh. 

“ Our council,” said Claverhouse, “ being resolved, I 
suppose, to testify by their present exultation, the extent 
of their former terror, have decreed a kind of triumphal 
entry to us victors and our captives ; but as 1 do not quite 
approve the taste of it, 1 am willing to avoid my own part 
in the show, and, at the same time, to save you from yours.” 

So saying, he gave up the command of the forces to 
Allan, (now a lieutenant-colonel,) and, turning his horse 
into a by-lane, rode into the city privately, accompanied 
by Morton and two or three servants. When Claverhouse 


212 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


arrived at the quarters which he usually occupied in tlie 
Canongate, he assigned to his prisoner a small apartment, 
with an intimation, that his parole confined him to it for 
the present. 

After about a quarter of an hour spent in solitary mus- 
ing on the strange vicissitudes of his late life, the atten- 
tion of Morton was summoned to the window by a great 
noise in the street beneath. Trumpets, drums, and ket- 
tle-drums, contended in noise with the shouts of a numer- 
ous rabble, and apprized him that the royal cavalry were 
passing in the triumphal attitude which Claverhouse had 
mentioned. The magistrates of the city, attended by 
their guard of halberds, had met the victors with their 
welcome, at the gate of the city, and now preceded them 
as a part of the procession. The next object was two 
heads borne upon pikes ; and before each bloody head 
were carried the hands of the dismembered sufferers, 
which were, by the brutal mockery of those who bore 
them, often approached towards each other as if in the 
attitude of exhortation or prayer. These bloody trophies 
belonged to two preachers who had fallen at Bothwell 
Bridge. After them came a cart led by the executioner’s 
assistant, in which were placed Macbriar, and other two 
prisoners, who seemed of the same profession. They 
were bareheaded, and strongly bound, yet looked around 
them with an air rather of triumph than dismay, and ap- 
peared in no respect moved either by the fate of their 
companions, of which the bloody evidences were carried 
before them, or by dread of their own approaching exe- 
cution, which these preliminaries so plainly indicated. 

Behind these prisoners, thus held up to public infamy 
and derision, came a body of horse, brandishing their 
broadswords, and filling the wide street with acclamations, 
which were answered by the tumultuous outcries and 
shouts of the rabble, who, in every considerable town, are 
too happy in being permitted to huzza for anything what- 
sv'^r which calls them together. In the rear of these 
troopers came the main body of the prise ners, at the heaa 
of whom were some of their leaders, who were treated 


OLD MORTALITY. 


213 


mth every circumstance of inventive mockery and insult. 
Several were placed on horseback with their faces to the 
animal’s tail ; others were chained to long bars of iron, 
which they were obliged to support in their hands, like 
the galley-slaves in Spain when travelling to the port where 
they are to be put on shipboard. The heads of others 
who had fallen were borne in triumph before the survivors, 
some on pikes and halberds, some in sacks, bearing the 
names of the slaughtered persons labelled on the outside. 
Such were the objects who headed the ghastly procession, 
who seemed as effectually doomed to death as if they 
wore the san-henitos of the condemned heretics in an 
auto-da-fe 

Behind them came on the nameless crowd to the num- 
ber of several hundreds, some retaining under their mis- 
fortunes a sense of confidence in the cause for which they 
suffered captivity, and were about to give a still more 
bloody testimony ; others seemed pale, dispirited, deject- 
ed, questioning in their own minds their prudence in es- 
pousing a cause which Providence seemed to have dis- 
owned, and looking about for some avenue through which 
they might escape from the consequences of their rash- 
ness. Others there were who seemed incapable of form- 
ing an opinion on the subject, or of entertaining either 
hope, confidence, or fear, but who, foaming with thirst and 
fatigue, stumbled along like over-driven oxen, lost to eve- 
rything but their present sense of wretchedness, and with- 
out having any distinct idea whether they were led to 
the shambles or to the pasture. These unfortunate men 
v/ere guarded on each hand by troopers, and behind them 
came the main body of the cavalry, whose military music 
resounded back from the high houses on each side of the 
street, and mingled with their own songs of jubilee and 
triumph, and the v/ild shouts of the rabble. 

Morton felt himself heart-sick, while he gazed on the 
dismal spectacle, and recognized in the bloody heads and 
still more miserable and agonized features of the living 
sufferers, faces which had been familiar to him during the 
nrief insurrection. He sunk down in a chair in a bewil- 


214 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


dered and stupified state, from which he was awakened 
by the voice of Cuddie. 

“ Lord forgie us, sir !” said the poor fellow, his teeth 
chattering like a pair of nut-crackers, his hair erect like 
boar’s bristles, and his face as pale as that of a corpse — 
“ Lord forgie us, sir ! we maun instantly gang before the 
council ! — O, Lord, what made them send for a puir bodie 
like me, sae mony braw lords and gentles ! — and there’s 
my mither come on the lang tramp irae Glasgow to see to 
gar me testify, as she ca’s it, that is to say, confess and be 
hanged ; but deil tak me if they mak sic a guse o’ Cud- 
die, if I can do better. But here’s Claverhouse himsell 
— the Lord preserve and forgie us, I say anes mair!” 

“ You must immediately attend the council, Mr. Mor- 
ion,” said Claverhouse, who entered while Cuddie spoke, 
“ and your servant must go with you. You need be un- 
der no apprehension for the consequences to yourself per- 
sonally. But I warn you that you will see something that 
will give you much pain, and from which I would willingly 
have saved you, if I had possessed the power. My car- 
riage waits us- — shall we go 

It will be readily supposed that Morton did not venture 
to dispute this invitation, however unpleasant. He rose 
and accompanied Claverhouse. 

“ 1 must apprise you,” said the latter, as he led the way 
down stairs, “ that you will get off cheap ; and so will 
your servant, provided he can keep his tongue quiet.” 

Cuddie caught these last words to his exceeding joy. 

“ Deil a fear o’ me,” said he, “ an my mither disna 
pit her finger in the pie.” 

At that moment his shoulder was seized by old Mause, 
who had contrived to thrust herself forward into the lobby 
of the apartment. 

“ O, hinny, hinny !” said she to Cuddie, hanging upon 
his neck, “ glad and proud, and sorry and humbled am I, 
a’ in ane and the same instant, to see my bairn ganging 
to testify for the truth gloriously with his mouth in coun- 
cil, as he did with his weapon in the field.” 


OLD MORTALITY. 


215 


“ Whisht, whisht, mither!” cried Cuddie impatiently. 
‘ Odd, ye daft wife, is this a time to speak o’ thae things 
— I tell ye I’ll testify naething either ae gate or another. 
I hae spoken to Mr. Pouiidtext, and I’ll tak the declara- 
tion, or whate’er they ca’ it, and we’re a’ to win free off 
if we do that — he’s gotten life for himselland a’ his folk, 
and that’s a minister for my siller ; I like nane o’ your 
sermons that end in a psalm at the Grassmarket.”* 

“ O, Cuddie, man, laith wad I be they suld hurt ye,” 
said old Mause, divided grievously between the safety of 
her son’s soul and that of his body ; “ but mind, my 
bonny bairn, ye hae battled for the faith, and dinna let 
the dread o’ losing creature-comforts withdraw ye frae 
the gude fight.” 

“ Hout tout, mither,” replied Cuddie, “ I hae fought 
e’en ower muckle already, and, to speak plain, I’m weari- 
ed o’ the trade. I hae swaggered wi’ a’ thae arms, and 
muskets, and pistols, buff-coats, and bandaliers, lang 
eneugh, and I like the pleugh-paidle a hanlle better. I 
ken naething suld gar a man fight, (that’s to say, when 
he’s no angry,) by and out-taken the dread o’ being hang- 
ed, or killed if he turns back.” 

“ But, my dear Cuddie,” continued the persevering 
Mause, “ your bridal garment — Oh, hinny, dinna sully 
the marriage garment !” 

“ Awa, awa, mither,” replied Cuddie ; “ dinna ye 
see the folks waiting for me 9 — Never fear me — I ken 
how to turn this far better than ye do — for ye’re bleezing 
awa about marriage, and the job is how we are to win 
by hanging.” 

So saying, he extricated himself out of his mother’s 
•imbraces, and requested the soldiers who took him in 
charge to conduct him to the place of examination with- 
out delay. He had been already preceded by Claver 
liouse and Morion. 


Then the place of public execution. 


216 


TAXES or MY XANDLORD. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

My native land, good night ! 

Lord Byron. 

The Privy Council of Scotland, in whom the practice 
since the union of the crowns vested great judicial pow- 
ers, as well as the general superintendence of the execu- 
tive department, was met in the ancient dark Gothic room, 
adjoining to the House of Parliament in Edinburgh, when 
General Graharne entered and took his place amongst 
the members at the council table. 

“ You have brought us a leash of game to-day. Gen- 
eral,” said a nobleman of high place amongst them. 
“ Here is a craven to confess — a cock of the game to 
stand at bay — and what shall I call the third. General V' 

“ Without further metaphor, I will entreat your Grace 
to call him a person in whom I am specially interested,” 
replied Claverhouse. 

“ And a whig into the bargain?” said the nobleman, 
lolling out a tongue which was at all times too big for his 
mouth, and accommodating his coarse features to a sneer, 
to which they seemed to be familiar. 

“ Yes, please your Grace, a whig, as your Grace was 
in 1641,” replied Claverhouse, with his usual appearance 
of imperturbable civility. 

“ He has you there, I think, my Lord Duke,” said one 
of the Privy Counsellors. 

“ Ay, ay,” returned the Duke, laughing, “ there’s no 
speaking to him since Drumclog — but come, bring in the 
nrisoners — and do you, Mr. Clerk, read the record.” 

The clerk read forth a bond, in which General Gra- 
hame of Claverhouse and Lord Evandale entered them- 
selves securities, that Henry Morton, younger, of Miln- 
wood, should go abroad and remain in foreign parts, until 


OLD MORTALITY. 


217 


his Majesty’s pleasure was further known in respect of 
the said Henry Morton’s accession to the late rebellion, 
and that under penalty of life and limb to the said Henry 
Morton, and of ten thousand marks to each of his se- 
curities. 

“ Do you accept of the King’s mercy upon these terms, 
Mr. Morton 9” said the Duke of Lauderdale, who pre- 
sided in the council. 

“ 1 have no other choice, my lord,” replied Morton. 

“ Then subscribe your name in the record.” 

Morton did so without reply, conscious that, in the cir- 
cumstances of his case, it was impossible for him to have 
escaped more easily. Macbriar, who was at the same 
instant brought to the foot of the council-table, bound up- 
on a chair, for his weakness prevented him from standing, 
beheld Morton in the act of what he accounted apostacy. 

“ He hath summed his defection by owning the carnal 
power of the tyrant !” he exclaimed, with a deep groan 
— “ A fallen star ! — a fallen star !” 

“ Hold your peace, sir,” said the Duke, “ and keep 
your ain breath to cool your ain porridge — ye’ll find them 
scalding hot, I promise you. — Call in the other fellow, 
who has some common sense. One sheep will leap the 
ditch when another goes first.” 

Cuddie was introduced unbound, but under the guard 
of two halberdiers, and placed beside Macbriar at the foot 
of the table. The poor fellow cast a piteous look around 
him, in which were mingled awe for the great men in 
whose presence he stood, and compassion for his fellow'- 
sufFerers, with no small fear of the personal consequences 
whi6h impended over himself. He made his clownish 
obeisances with a double portion of reverence, and then 
awaited the opening of the awful scene. 

“ Were you at the battle of Bothwell Brigg ?” was the 
first question which was thundered in his ears. 

Cuddie meditated a denial, but had sense enough, up- 
on reflection, to discover that the truth would be too strong 
fi)r him ; so he replied with true Caledonian indirectness 
19 VOL. II. 


218 


TALES OE MY IiA^D10RD. 


of response, “ I’ll no say but it may be possible that 1 
might hae been there.” 

“ Answer directly, you knave — yes or no 9 — You know 
you were there.” 

“ It’s no for me to contradict your Lordship’s Grace’s 
honour,” said Cuddie. 

“ Once more, sir, were you there 9 — yes or no 9” said 
the Duke, impatiently. 

“ Dear stir,” again replied Cuddie, “ how can ane 
mind preceesely where they hae been a’ the days o’ their 
life 9” 

“ Speak out, you scoundrel,” said General Dalzell, 

or I’ll dash your teeth out with my dudgeon-haft — Do 
you think we can stand here all day to be turning and 
dodging with you, like grey-hounds after a hare 9 

“ Aweel then,” said Cuddie, ‘‘ since naething else will 
please you, write down that I cannot deny but 1 was there.” 

“ Well, sir,” said the Duke, “ and do you think that 
the rising upon that occasion was rebellion or not 9” 

“ I’m no just free to give my opinion, stir,” said the 
cautious captive, “ on what might cost my neck ; but 1 
doubt it will be very little better.” 

“ Better than what ?” 

“ Just than rebellion, as your honour ca’s it,” replied 
Cuddie. 

“ Well, sir, that’s speaking to the purpose,” replied his 
Grace. “ And are you content to accept of the King’s 
pardon for your guilt as a rebel, and to keep the church, 
and pray for the King ?” 

“ Blithely, stir,” answered the unscrupulous Cuddie ; 
“ and drink his health into the bargain, when the ale’sgude.” 

‘‘ Egad,” said the Duke, “ this is a hearty cock. — 
What brought you into such a scrape, mine honest friend ?” 

“Just ill example, stir,” replied the prisoner, “ and a 
daft auld jaud of a inither, wi’ reverence to your Grace’s 
honour.” 

“ Why, God-a-mercy, my friend,” replied the Duke, 
“ take care of bad advice another time ; 1 think you are not 
likely to commit treason on your own score. — Make out 
his free pardon, and bring forward the rogue in the chair ^ 


OLD MOKTALITY. 


219 


Macbriar was then moved forward to the post of ex- 
amination. 

Were you at the battle of Bothwell Brigg was 
in like manner, demanded of him. 

I was,’’ answered the prisoner, in a bold and reso- 
lute tone. 

“ Were you armed 

I was not — 1 went in my calling as a preacher of 
God’s word, to encourage them that drew the sword in 
His cause.” 

“ In other words, to aid and abet the rebels ?” said 
the Duke. , 

“ Thou hast spoken it,” replied the prisoner. 

‘‘ Well, then,” continued the interrogator, let us 
know if you saw John Balfour of Burley among the 
party 9— -I presume you know him 

“ I bless God that I do know him,” replied Macbriar; 
“ he is a zealous and a sincere Christian.” 

“ And when and where did you last see this pious 
personage T’ was the query which immediately followed. 

“ I am here to answer for myself,” said Macbriar, in the 
same dauntless manner, and not to endanger others.” 

“ We shall know,” said Dalzell, ‘‘ how to make you 
find your tongue.” 

“ If you can make him fancy himself in a conventicle,” 
answered Lauderdale, he will find it without you. — 
Come, laddie, speak, while the play is good— you’re too 
young to bear the burden will be laid on you else.” 

“ i defy you,” retorted Macbriar. “ This has not 
been the first of my imprisonments or of my sufferings ; 
and, young as I may be, I have lived long enough to know 
how to die when I am called upon.” 

‘‘ Ay, but there are some things which must go before 
an easy death, if you continue obstinate,” said Lauder- 
dale, and rung a small silver bell which was placed before 
him on the table. 

A dark crimson curtain, which covered a sort of niche, 
or Gothic recess in the wall, rose at the signal, and dis- 
played the public executioner, a tall, grim, and hideous 


220 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


man, having an oaken table before him, on which lay 
thumb-screws and an iron case, called the Scottish boot, 
used in those tyrannical days to torture accused persons- 
Morton, who was unprepared for this ghastly apparition, 
started when the curtain arose, but Macbriar’s nerves 
were more firm. He gazed upon the horrible apparatus 
with much composure ; and if a touch of nature called 
the blood from his cheek for a second, resolution sent h 
back to his brow with greater energy. 

“ Do you know who that man is said Lauderdale, 
in a low, stern voice, almost sinking into a whisper. 

“ He is, I suppose,” replied Macbriar, the infamous 
executioner of your blood-thirsty commands upon the 
persons of God’s people. He and you are equally be- 
neath my regard ; and, I bless God, 1 no more fear what 
he can inflict than what you can command. Flesh and 
blood may shrink under the sufferings you can doom me 
to, and poor frail nature may shed tears, or send forth 
cries ; but I trust my soul is anchored firmly on the rock 
of ages.” 

“ Do your duty,” said the Duke to the executioner. 

The fellow advanced, and asked with a harsh and dis- 
cordant voice, upon which of the prisoner’s limbs he 
should first employ his engine. 

“ Let him choose for himself,” said the Duke ; “ I 
should like to oblige him in anything that is reasonable.” 

“ Since you leave it to me,” said the prisoner, stretch- 
ing forth his right leg, “ take the best — 1 willingly be- 
stow it in the cause for which I suffer.” 

The executioner, with the help of his assistants, inclos- 
ed the leg and knee within the tight iron boot, or case, 
and then placing a wedge of the same metal between the 
knee and the edge of the machine, took a mallet in his 
hand, and stood waiting for farther orders. A well-dress- 
ed man, by profession a surgeon, placed himself by the 
other side of tiie prisoner’s chair, bared the prisoner’s 
arm, and applied his thumb to the pulse in order to reg- 
ulate the torture according to the strength of the patient. 
When these preparations were made, the president of 


OLD MORTALITY. 


221 


tlie council repeated with the same stern voice the ques- 
tion, “ When and where did you last see John Balfour 
of Burley 'll” 

The prisoner, instead of replying to him, turned his 
eyes to Heaven as if imploring divine strength, and mut- 
tered a few words, of which the last were distinctly audi- 
ble, “ Thou hast said thy people shall be willing in the 
day of thy power !” 

Tile Duke of Lauderdale glanced his eye around the 
council as if to collect their suffrages, and, judging from 
their mute signs, gave on his own part a nod to the exe- 
cutioner, whose mallet instantly descended on the wedge, 
and, forcing it between the knee and the iron boot, occa- 
sioned the most exquisite pain, as was evident from the 
flush which instantly took place on the brow and on the 
cheeks of the sufferer. The fellow then again raised his 
weapon, and stood prepared to give a second blow. 

“ Will you yet say,” repeated the Duke of Lauder- 
dale, ‘‘ where and when you last parted from Balfour of 
Burley *?” 

“ You have my answer,” said the sufferer resolutely, 
and the second blow fell. The third and fourth succeed- 
ed, but at the fifth, when a larger wedge had been intro- 
duced, the prisoner set up a scream of agony. 

Morton, whose blood boiled within him at witnessing 
such cruelty, could bear no longer, and, although unarm- 
ed and himself in great danger, was springing forward, 
when Claverhouse, who observed his emotion, withheld 
him by force, laying one hand on his arm and the other 
on his mouth, while he whispered, “ For God’s sake, 
think where you are !” 

This movement, fortunately for him, was observed by 
no other of the counsellors, whose attention was engaged 
with the dreadful scene before them. 

“ He is gone,” said the surgeon—^ he has fainted, my 
lords, and human nature can endure no more.” 

“ Release him,” said the Duke, and added, turning to 
Dalzell, “ He will make an old proverb good, for he’ll 
19 * VOL. II. 


222 


TALES OF Mr LANDLORD. 


scarce ride to-day, though he has had his boots on. I 
sujjpose we must finish with him.” 

“ Ay, despatch his sentence, and have done with him, 
we have plenty of drudgery behind.” 

Strong waters and essences were busily employed to 
recall the senses of the unfortunate captive ; and, when 
his first faint gasps intimated a return of sensation, the 
Duke pronounced sentence of death upon him, as a 
traitor taken in the act of open rebellion, and adjudged 
him to be carried from the bar to the common place of 
execution, and there hanged by the neck ; his head and 
hands to be stricken off after death, and disposed of ac- 
cording to the pleasure of the councilj^and all and sun- 
dry his movable goods and gear escheat and inbrought 
to his Majesty’s use. 

“ Doomster,” he continued, “ repeat the sentence to 
the prisoner.” 

The office of Doomster was in those days, and till a 
much later period, held by the executioner, in commen- 
dam^ with his ordinary functions. The duty consisted in 
reciting to the Unhappy criminal the sentence of the law 
as pronounced by the judge, which acquired an addition- 
al and horrid emphasis from the recollection, that the 
hateful personage by whom it was uttered was to be the 
agent of the cruelties he denounced. Macbriar had 
scarce understood the purport of the words as first pro- 
nounced by the Lord President of the Council ^ but he 
was sufficiently recovered to listen and to reply to the 
sentence when uttered by the harsh and odious voice of 
the ruffian who was to execute it, and at the last awfu] 
w'ords, “ And this I pronounce for doom,” he answered 
boldly— My lords, I thank you for the only favour I 
looked forj or would accept at your hands, namely, that 
you have sent the crushed and maimed carcass which has 
this day sustained your cruelty, to this hasty end. It were 
indeed little to me, whether 1 perish on the gallows or in 
the prison-house ; but if death, following close on what 
I have this day suffered, had . found me in my cell of 
darkness and bondage, many might have lost the sight 


OLD MORTALITY. 


22S 


how a Christian man can suffer in the good cause. For 
the rest, I forgive you, my lords, for what you have ap- 
pointed and I have sustained — And why should I not — 
Ye send me to a happy exchange — to the company of 
angels and the spirits of the just, for that of frail dust 
and ashes — Ye send me from darkness into day — from 
mortality to immortality — and, in a word, from earth to 
heaven ! — If the thanks, therefore, and pardon of a dy- 
ing man can do you good, take them at my hand, and 
may your last moments be as happy as mine !” 

As he spoke thus, with a countenance radiant with joy 
and triumpli, he was withdrawn by those who had brought 
him into the apartment, and executed within half an hour, 
dying with the same enthusiastic firmness which his whole 
life had evinced. 

The council broke up, and Morton found himself again 
in the carriage with General Grahame. 

“ Marvellous firmness and gallantry !” said Morton, as 
he reflected upon Macbriar’s conduct ; “ what a pity it 
is that with such self-devotion and heroism should have 
been mingled the fiercer features of his sect !” 

“ You mean,” said Claverhouse, “ his resolution to 
condemn you to death 9 — to that he would have recon- 
ciled himself by a single text ; for example, ‘ And 
Phineas arose and executed judgment,* or something to 
the same purpose.— But wot ye where you are now 
bound, Mr. Morton 9” 

“ We are on the road to Leith, I observe,** answered 
Morton. “ Can I not be permitted to see my friends ere 
I leave my native land 9’* 

“ Your uncle,*’ replied Grahame, “ has been spoken 
to and declines visiting you. The good gentleman is 
terrified, and not without some reason, that the crime of 
your treason may extend itself over his lands and tene- 
ments — he sends you, however, his blessing, and a small 
sum of money. Lord Evandale continues extremely in- 
disposed. Major Bellenden is at Tillietudlem putting 
matters in order. The scoundrels have made great havoc 
there with Lady Margaret’s muniments of antiquity, and 


224 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


have desecrated and destroyed what the good lady called 
the Throne of his most Sacred Majesty. Is there any 
one else vvliom you would wish to see ?” 

Morion sighed deeply as he answered, “ No — it would 
avail nothing. — But my preparations, — small as they are, 
some must be necessary.” 

“ They are all ready for you,” said the General. 
“ Lord Evandale has anticipated all you wish. Here is 
a packet from him with letters of recommendation for the 
court of the Stadtholder Prince of Orange, to which I 
have added one or two. I made my first campaigns un- 
der him, and first saw fire at the battle of Seneff.i^ There 
are also bills of exchange for your immediate wants, and 
more will be sent when you require it.” 

Morton heard all this, and received the parcel with an 
astounded and confused look, so sudden was the execu 
tion of the sentence of banishment. 

“ And my servant 9” he said. 

“ He shall be taken care of, and replaced, if it be prac- 
ticable, in the service of Lady Margaret Bellenden ; I 
think he will hardly neglect the parade of the feudal re- 
tainers, or go a-whigging a second time. — But here we 
are upon the quay, and the boat waits you.” 

It was even as Claverhouse said. A boat waited for 
Captain Morton with the trunks and baggage belonging to 
his rank. Claverhouse shook him by the hand, and 
wished him good fortune, and a happy return to Scotland 
in quieter times. 

“ I shall never forget,” he said, the gallantry of your 
behaviour to my friend Evandale, in circumstances when 
many men would have sought to rid him out of their way.” 

Another friendly pressure, and they parted. As Mor- 
ton descended the pier to get into the boat, a hand placed 
in his a letter folded up in very small space. He looked 
round. The person who gave it seemed much muffled 
up ; he pressed his finger upon his lip, and then disap- 
peared among the crowd. The incident awakened Mor- 
ton’s curiosity ; and when he found himself on board o( 
a vessel bound for Rotterdam, and saw all his compan- 


OLD MORTALITY. 


225 


ons of the voyage busy making their own arrangements, 
he took an opportunity to open the billet thus mysterious- 
ly thrust upon him. It ran thus ; — “ Thy courage on 
the fatal day when Israel fled before his enemies, hath, 
in some measure, atoned for thy unhappy owning of the 
Erastian interest. These are not days for Ephraim to 
strive with Israel. — I know thy heart is with the daughter 
of the stranger. But turn from that folly ; for in exile, 
and in flight, and even in death itself, shall my hand be 
heavy against that bloody and malignant house, and Prov- 
idence hath given rne the means of meting unto them 
with their own measure of ruin and confiscation. The 
resistance of their strong-hold was the main cause of our 
being scattered at Bothwell Bridge, and I have bound it 
upon my soul to visit it upon them. Wherefore, think of 
her no more, but join with our brethren in banishment, 
whose hearts are still towards this miserable land to save 
and to relieve her. There is an honest remnant in Hol- 
land whose eyes are looking out for deliverance. Join 
thyself unto them like the true son of the stout and wor- 
thy Silas Morton, and thou wilt have good acceptance 
among them for his sake and for thine own working. 
Shouldst thou be found worthy again to labour in the 
vineyard, thou wilt at all times hear of my in-comings 
and out-goings, by inquiring after Quintin Mackell of 
Irongray, at the house of that singular Christian woman, 
Bessie Maclure, near to the place called the HoufF, where 
Neil Blane entertaineth guests. So much from him who 
hopes to hear again from thee in brotherhood, resisting 
unto blood, and striving against sin. Meanwhile, pos- 
sess thyself in patience. Keep thy sword girded, and 
thy lamp burning, as one that wakes in the night ; for 
He who shall judge the Mount of Esau, and shall make 
false professors as straw, and malignants as stubble, will 
come in the fourth watch with garments dyed in blood, 
and the house of Jacob shall be for spoil, and the house 
of Joseph for fire. I am he that hath written it, whose 
hand hath been on the mighty in the waste field.” 


226 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


This extraordinary letter was subscribed J. B. of B. ; 
but the signature of these initials was not necessary for 
pointing out to Morton that it could come from no other 
than Burley. It gave him new occasion to admire the 
indomitable spirit of this man, who, with art equal to his 
courage and obstinacy, was even now endeavouring to re- 
establish the web of conspiracy which had been so lately 
torn to pieces. But he felt no sort of desire, in the 
present moment, to sustain a correspondence which must 
be perilous, or to renew an association, which, in so many 
ways, had been nearly fatal to him. The threats which 
Burley held out against the family of Belletiden, he con-^ 
sidered as a mere expression of his spleen on account of 
their defence of Tillietudlem ; and nothing seemed less 
likely than that at the very moment of their party being 
victorious, their fugitive and distressed adversary could 
exercise the least influence over their fortunes. 

Morton, however, hesitated for an instant, whether 
he should not send the Major or Lord Evandale inti- 
mation of Burley’s threats. Upon consideration, he 
‘bought he could not do so without betraying his confi- 
dential correspondence ; for to warn them of his menaces 
would have served little purpose, unless he had given 
them a clew to prevent them, by apprehending his per- 
son ; while, by doing so, he deemed he should commit 
an ungenerous breach of trust to remedy an evil which 
seemed almost imaginary. Upon mature consideration, 
therefore, he tore the letter, having first made a memo- 
randum of the name and place where the writer was to 
be heard of, and threw the fragments into the sea. 

While Morton was thus employed the vessel was un 
moored, and the white sails swelled out before a favoura 
ble north-west wind. The ship leaned her side to the 
gale, and went roaring through the waves, leaving a long 
and rippling furrow to track her course. The city and 
port from which he had sailed became undistinguishable 
m the distance ; the hills by which they were surround- 
ed melted finally into the blue sky, and Morton was sep- 
arated for several years from the land of his nativity 


OLD MORTALITY. 


22 " 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

Whom does lime gallop withal ? 

As You Like U. 

It is fortunate for tale-tellers that they are not tied 
down like theatrical writers to the unities of time and 
place, but may conduct their personages to Athens and 
Thebes at their pleasure, and bring them back at their 
convenience. Time, to use Rosalind’s simile, has hith- 
erto paced with the hero of our tale ; for, betwixt Mor- 
ton’s first appearance as a competitor for the popinjay, 
and his final departure for Holland, hardly two months 
elapsed. Years, however, glided away ere we find it 
possible to resume the thread of our narrative, and Time 
must be held to have galloped over the interval. Crav- 
ing, therefore, the privilege of my cast, I entreat the 
reader’s attention to the continuation of the narrative, as 
it starts from a new era, being the year immediately sub- 
sequent to the British Revolution. 

Scotland had just begun to repose from the convulsion 
occasioned by a change of dynasty, and, through the 
prudent tolerance of King William, had narrowly escaped 
the horrors of a protracted civil war. Agriculture be- 
gan to revive ; and men, whose minds had been disturb- 
ed by the violent political concussions, and the general 
change of government in church and state, had begun to 
recover their ordinary temper, and to give the usual at- 
tention to their own private affairs in lieu of discussing 
those of the public. The Highlanders alone resisted the 
newly-established order of things, and were in arms in a 
considerable body under the Viscount of Dundee, whom 
our readers have hitherto known by the name of Gra- 
hame of Claverhouse. But the usual state of the High- 
lands was so unruly, that their being more or less dis 


228 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


turbed was not supposed greatly to affect the general 
tranquillity of the country, so long as their disorders were 
confined within their own frontiers. In the Lowlands, the 
Jacobites, now the undermost party, had ceased to expect 
any immediate advantage by open resistance, and were, 
m their turn, driven to hold private meetings, and form 
associations for mutual defence, which the government 
termed treason, while they cried out persecution. 

The triumphant whigs, while they re-established pres- 
bytery as the national religion, and assigned to the Gen- 
eral Assemblies of the Kirk their natural influence, were 
very far from going the lengths which the Cameronians 
and more extravagant portion of the non-conformists un- 
der Charles and James loudly demanded. They would 
listen to no proposal for re-establishing the Solemn 
League and Covenant ; and those who had expected to 
find in King William a zealous Covenanted Monarch, 
were grievously disappointed when he intimated, with 
the phlegm peculiar to his country, his intention to tole- 
rate all forms of religion which were consistent with the 
safety of the state. The principles of indulgence thus 
espoused and gloried in by the government, gave great 
oflience to the more violent party, who condemned them 
as diametrically contrary to Scripture ; for which nar- 
row-spirited doctrine they cited various texts, all, as it 
may well be supposed, detached from their context, and 
most of them derived from the charges given to the 
Jews in the Old Testament dispensation to extirpate idol- 
aters out of the promised land. They also murmured 
highly against the influence assumed by secular persons 
in exercising the rights of patronage, which they termed 
a rape upon the chastity of the Church. They censured 
and condemned as Erastian many of the measures, by 
which government after the Revolution showed an incli- 
nation to interfere with the management of the Church, 
and they positively refused to take the oath of allegiance 
to King William and Queen Mary, until they should, on 
their part, have sworn to the Solemn League and Cove- 


OJ^D MORTALITY. 


229 


nant, the Magna Charta, as they termed it, of the Pres- 
byterian Church. 

This party, therefore, remained grumbling and dissat- 
isfied, and made repeated declarations against defections 
and causes of wrath, which, had they been prosecuted as 
in the two former reigns, would have led to the samo 
consequence of open rebellion. But as the murmurers 
were allowed to hold their meetings uninterrupted, and to 
testify as much as they pleased against Socinianism, Eras- 
tianisra, and all the compliances and defections of the 
time, their zeal, unfanned by persecution, died gradually 
away, their numbers became diminished, and they sunk 
into the scattered remnant of serious, scrupulous, and 
harmless enthusiasts, of whom Old Mortality, whose le- 
gends have afforded the ground-work of my tale, may 
be .taken as no bad representative. But in the years 
which immediately succeeded the Revolution, the Cam- 
eronians continued a sect strong in numbers and vehe- 
ment in their political opinions, whom government wished 
to discourage, while they prudently Jemporized with 
them. These men formed one violent party in the state ; 
and the Episcopalian and Jacobite interest, notwithstand- 
ing their ancient and national animosity, yet repeatedly 
endeavoured ' to intrigue among them, and avail them- 
selv^es of their discontents, to obtain their assistance in 
recalling the Stuart family. The Revolutionary govern- 
ment, in the meanwhile, was supported by the great bulk 
of the Lowland interest, who were chiefly disposed to a 
moderate presbytery, and formed in a great measure the 
party, who, in the former oppressive reigns, were stigma- 
tized by the Cameronians, for having exercised that form 
of worship under the declaration of Indulgence issued by 
Charles II. Such was the state of parties in Scotland 
immediately subsequent to the Revolution. 

It was on a delightful summer evening, that a stran- 
ger, well mounted, and having the appearance of a mili- 
tary man of rank, rode down a winding descent which 
terminated in view of the romantic ruins of Bothwell 
20 \UL. IJ. 


230 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


CaStlO and the river Clyde, which winds so beautifully 
between rocks and woods to sweep around the towers for- 
merly built by Aymer de Valence. Bothwell Bridge was 
at a little distance and also in sight. The opposite field, 
once the scene of slaughter and conflict, now lay as 
placid and quiet as the surface of a summer lake. The 
trees and bushes, which grew around in romantic variety 
of shade, were hardly seen to stir under the influence of 
the evening breeze. The very murmur of the river 
seemed to soften itself into unison with the stillness oi 
the scene around. 

The path through which the traveller descended, was 
occasionally shaded by detached trees of great size, and 
elsewhere by the hedges and boughs of flourishing orch- 
ards, now laden with summer fruits. 

The nearest object of consequence was a farm-house, 
or it might be the abode of a small proprietor, situated 
on the side of a sunny bank, which was covered by ap- 
ple and pear trees. At the foot of the path which led 
up to this mod ‘.st mansion was a small cottage, pretty 
much in the situation of a porter’s lodge, though obvious- 
ly not designed for such a purpose. The hut seemed 
comfortable, and more neatly arranged than is usual in 
Scotland. It had its little garden, where some fruit-trees 
and bushes were mingled with kitchen herbs ; a cow and 
six sheep fed in a paddock hard by ; the cock strutted 
and crowed, and summoned his family around him before 
the door ; a heap of brushwood and turf, neatly made 
up, indicated that the winter fuel was provided ; and 
the thin blue smoke which ascended from the straw-bound 
chimney, and winded slowly out from among the green 
trees, showed that the evening meal was in the act of 
being made ready. To complete the little scene of rura. 
peace and comfort, a girl of about five years old was 
fetching water in a pitcher from a beautiful fountain of the 
purest transparency, which bubbled up at the root of a 
decayed old oak-tree, about twenty yards from the end of 
llie cottage. 


OLD MORTALITY. 


231 


The stranger reined up his horse, and called to the 
little nymph, desiring to know the way to Fairy- Knowe. 
The child set down her water-pitcher, hardly understand- 
ing what was said to her, put her fair flaxen hair apart on 
her brows, and opened her round blue eyes with the won- 
dering, “ What’s ye’re wull which is usually a peas- 
ant’s first answer, if it can be called one, to all questions 
whatever. 

“ I wish to know the way to Fairy-knowe.” 

‘‘ Mammie, mammie,” exclaimed the little rustic, run- 
ning towards the door of the hut, “ come out and speak 
to the gentleman.” 

Her mother appeared, — a handsome young country 
woman, to whose features, originally sly and espiegle in 
expression, matrimony had given that decent matronly 
air which peculiarly marks the peasant’s wife of Scotland. 
She had an infant in one arm, and with the other she 
smoothed down her apron, to which hung a chubby child 
of two years old. The elder girl, whom the traveller 
had first seen, fell back behind her mother as soon as she 
appeared, and kept that station, occasionally peeping out 
to look at the stranger. 

“ What was your pleasure, sir said the woman, with 
an air of respectful breeding, not quite common in her 
rank of life, but without anything resembling forwardness. 

The stranger looked at her with great earnestness for 
a moment, and then replied, “ I am seeking a place call- 
ed Fairy-knowe, and a man called Cuthbert Headrigg. 
You can probably direct me to him*?” 

“ It’s my gudeman, sir,” said the young woman, with a 
smile of welcome ; “ will you alight, sir, and come into 
our puir dwelling ?■ — Cuddie, Cuddie,” — (a white-head- 
ed rogue of four years appeared at the door of the hut) 
— “ Rin awa, my bonnie man, and tell your father a 
gentleman wants him. — Or, stay — Jenny, ye’ll hae mair 
sense — rin ye awa and tell him ; he’s down at the Four- 
acres Park. — Winna ye light down and bide a blink, sir f 
' — Or would ye take a mouthfu’ o’ bread and cheese, or 
a drink o’ ale, till our gudeman comes '1 It’s gude ale. 


232 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


though I shouldna say sae that brews it; but plough- 
man-lads work hard, and maun hae something to keep 
their hearts abune by ordinar, sae I aye pit a gude govv- 
pin o’ maut to the browst.” 

As the stranger declined her courteous offers, Cuddie, 
the reader’s old acquaintance, made his appearance in 
j)erson. His countenance still presented the same mix- 
ture of apparent dullness with occasional sparkles, which 
indicated the craft so often found in the clouted shoe. 
He looked on the rider as on one whom he never had 
before seen ; and, like his daughter and wife, opened 
the conversation with the regular query, “ What’s your 
wull wi’ me, sir*?” 

“ 1 have a curiosity to ask some questions about this 
country,” said the traveller, “ and I was directed to you 
as an intelligent man who can answer them.” 

“ Nae doubt, sir,” said Cuddie, after a moment’s hesi- 
tation ; “ but I would first like to ken what sort of ques- 
tions they are. I hae had sae rnony questions speered 
at me in my day, and in sic queer w^ays, that if ye kend 
a’, ye wadna wonder at my jalousing a’ thing about 
them. My mother gar’d me learn the Single Car- 
ritch, whilk was a great vex ; then I behoved to learn 
about my godfathers and godmothers to please the auld 
leddy ; and whiles I jumbled them thegither and pleased 
nane o’ them ; and when I cam to man’s yestate, cam 
another kind o’ questioning in fashion, that I liked .waur 
than Effectual Calling ; and the ‘ did promise and vow’ 
of the tane were yokit to the end of thetother. Sae ye 
see, sir, I aye like to hear questions asked before I an- 
swer them.” 

“ You have nothing to apprehend from mine, my good 
friend ; they only relate to the state of the country.” 

“ Country replied Cuddie ; “ ou, the country’s 
weel enough, and it werena that dour deevil, Calver’se, 
(they ca’ him Dundee now) that’s stirring about yet in 
the Highlands, they say, wi’ a’ the Donalds, and Duncans, 
and Dugalds, that ever wore bottomless breeks, driving 
about wi’ him, to set things asteer again, now we nae 


OID MORTALITY. 


233 


gotten them a’ reasonably weel settled. But Mackay 
will pit him down, there’s little doubt o’ that ; he’ll gie 
him his fairing, I’ll be caution for it.” 

“ What makes you so positive of that, my friend 9” 
asked the horseman. 

“ 1 heard it wi’ my ain lugs,” answered Cuddie, “ fore- 
tauld to him by a man that had been three hours stane 
dead, and came back to this earth again just to tell him 
his mind. It was at a place they ca’ Drumshinnel.” 

“ Indeed 9” said the stranger ; “ I can hardly believe 
you, my friend.” 

“ Ye might ask my mither, then, if she were in life,” 
said Cuddie ; “ it was her explained it a’ to me, for I 
thought the man had only been wounded. At ony rate, 
he spake of the casting out of the Stuarts by their very 
names, and the vengeance that was brewing for Calver’se 
and his dragoons. They ca’d the man Habakkuk Muck- 
lewTath ; his brain was awee ajee, but he was a braw 
preacher for a’ that.” 

“ You seem,” said the stranger, “ to live in a rich and 
peaceful country.” 

“ It’s no to compleen o’, sir, an’ we get the crap weel 
in,” quoth Cuddie ; “ but if ye had seen the blude rin- 
nin’ as fast on the tap o’ that brigg yonder as ever the 
water ran below it, ye wadna hae thought it sae bonnie 
a spectacle.” 

“ You mean the battle some years since 9 — I was wait- 
ing upon Monmouth that morning, my good friend, and 
did see some part of the action,” said the stranger. 

“ Then ye saw a bonny stour,” said Cuddie, “ that 
sail serve me for fighting a’ the days o’ my life. — I judged 
ye wad be a trooper,by your red scarlet lace-coat and 
your looped hat.” 

“ And which side were you upon, my friend 9’ com 
tinued the inquisitive stranger. 

“ Aha, lad 9” retorted Cuddie, with a knowing look, 
or what he designed for such — “ there’s nae use in tell • 
ing that, unless I kend wha was asking me.” 

20* VOL. II. 


234 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


“ I commend your prudence, but it is unnecessary 
I know you acted on that occasion as servant to Henry 
Morton.” 

“ Ay !” said Cuddie, in surprise, “ how camq ye by 
that secret 9 — No that I need care a bodle about it, for 
the sun’s on our side o’ the hedge now. I wish my 
master were living to get a blink o’t.” 

‘ 4nd what became of him 9” said the rider. 

“ He was lost in the vessel gaun to that weary Holland 
— clean lost, and a’ body perished, and my poor master 
amang them. Neither man nor mouse was ever heard 
o’ mair.” Then Cuddie uttered a groan. 

“ You had some regard for him then 9” continued the 
stranger. 

“ How could I help it 9 — His face was made of a fid- 
dle, as they say, for a’ body that looked on him liked him. 
And a braw soldier he was. O, an ye had but seen him 
down at the brigg there, fleeing about like a fleeing dragon 
to gar folk fight that had unco little will till’t ! There 
was he and that sour whigamore they ca’d Burley — if 
twa men could hae won a field, we wadna hae gotten 
our skins paid that day.” 

“ You mention Burley — Do you know if he yet lives 

“ 1 kenna muckle about him. Folk say he was abroad, 
and our sufferers wad hold no communion wi’ him, be- 
cause o’ his having murdered the Archbishop. Sae he 
cam hame ten times dourer than ever, and broke aff wi’ 
mony o’ the presbyterians ; and, at this last coming of 
the Prince of Orange, he could get nae countenance nor 
command for fear of his deevilish temper, and he hasna 
been heard of since ; only some folks say, that pride and 
anger hae driven him clean wud.” 

‘ And — and,” said the traveller, after considerable hes- 
itation, — “ do you know anything of Lord Evandale 9” 
Div I ken ony thing o’ Lord Evandale 9 — Div T 
no 9 Is not my young leddy up by yonder at the house, 
that’s as gude as married to him 9” 

“ And are they not married, then 9” said the rider 
hastily. 


OLD MORTALITY. 


23tf 


‘‘ No ; only what they ca’ betrothed— me and my wife 
were witnesses — it’s no mony months bypast — it was a 
lang courtship — few folk kend the reason by Jenny and 
mysell. But will ye no light down ? I downa bide to 
see ye sitting up there, and the clouds are casting up 
thick in the west ower Glasgow-ward, and maist skeily 
folk think that bodes rain.” 

In fact, a deep black cloud had already surmounted the 
Setting sun ; a few large drops of rain fell, and the mur- 
murs of distant thunder were heard. 

“ The deil’s in this man,” said Cuddie to himself ; 
“ I wish he wad either light aff or ride on, that he may 
quarter himsellin Hamilton or the shower begin.” 

But the rider sat motionless on his horse for two or 
three moments after his last question, like one exhausted 
by some uncommon effort. At length, recovering him- 
self,asifwith a sudden and painful effort, he asked Cud- 
die, “ if Lady Margaret Bellenden still lived.” 

“ She does,” replied Cuddie, “ but in a very sma’ 
way. They hae been a sad changed family since thae 
rough times began ; they hae suffered eneugh first and 
last — and to lose the auld Tower, and a’ the bonny baro- 
ny and the holms that I hae pleughed sae often, and the 
Mains and my kale-yard that I suld hae gotten back 
again and a’ for naething, as a body may say, but just 
the want o’ some bits of sheep-skin that were lost in the 
confusion of the taking of Tillietudlem.” 

“ I have heard something of this,” said the stranger, 
deepening his voice and averting his head. “ I have 
some interest in the family, and would willingly help them 
if 1 could. Can you give me a bed in your house to- 
night, my friend 

“ It’s but a corner of a place, sir,” said Cuddie, “ but 
we’se try, rather than ye suld ride on in the rain and 
thunner ; for, to be free wi’ ye, sir, I think ye seem no 
that ower week” 

“ I am liable to a dizziness,” said the stranger, “ but 
it will soon wear off.” 


236 


TAXES OF MY XANDXORD. 


“ I ken we can gie ye a decent supper, sir,” said 
Cuddie ; and we’ll see about a bed as weel as we can. 
We wad be laith a stranger suld lack what we have, 
though we are jirnply provided for in beds rather ; for 
Jenny has sae mony bairns, (God bless them and her,) 
that troth I maun speak to Lord Evandale to gie . us a 
bit eik, or outshot o’ some sort, to the onstead.” 

“ I shall be easily accommodated,” said the stranger, 
as he entered the house. 

“ And ye may rely on your naig being weel sorted,” 
said Cuddie ; “ 1 ken weel what belangs to suppering a 
horse, and this is a very gude ane.” 

Cuddie took the horse to the little cow-house, and 
called to his wife to attend in the mean while to the 
stranger’s accommodation. The officer entered, and 
threw himself on a settle at some distance from the fire, 
and carefully turning his back to the little lattice window. 
Jenny, or Mrs. Headrigg, if the reader pleases, requested 
him to lay aside the cloak, belt, and flapped hat, which 
he wore upon his journey, but he excused himself under 
pretence of feeling cold ; and, to divert the time till Cud- 
die’s return, he entered into some chat with the children, 
carefully avoiding, during the interval, the inquisitive glan- 
ces of his landlady. 


N CHAPTER XXV. 

What tragic tears bedim the eye ! 

What deaths we suffer ere we die 1 
Our broken friendships W'e deplore, 

And loves of youth that are no more. 

Logan, 

Cuddie soon returned, assuring the stranger, with a 
cheerful voice, ‘‘ that the horse was properly sujipered 
up, and that the gude-wife should make a bed up for him 


OLD MORTALITY. 


237 


at the house, mair purpose-like and comfortable than 
the like o’ them could gie him.” 

“ Are the family at the house 9” said the stranger, with 
an interrupted and broken voice. 

“ N w, :tir 5 they’re awa wi’ a’ the servants — they keep 
only twa now-a-days, and my gude-wife there, has the 
keys and the charge, though she’s no a fee’d servant. 
She has been born and bred in the family, and has a’ 
trust and management. If they were there, we behov- 
edna to take sic freedom without their order ; but when 
they are awa, they will be weel pleased we serve a 
stranger gentleman. Miss Bellenden wad help a’ the 
haill warld, an her power was as gude as her will ; and 
her grandmother, Leddy Margaret, has an unco respect 
for the gentry, and she’s no ill to the poor bodies neither 
— And now, wife, what for are ye no getting forrit wi’ the 
sowens 9” 

‘‘ Never mind, lad,” rejoined Jenny, “ ye sail hae them 
in gude time ; I ken weel that ye like your brose het.” 

Cuddie fidgeted, and laughed with a peculiar expres- 
sion of intelligence at this repartee, w'hich was followed 
by a dialogue of little consequence betwixt his wife and 
him, in which the stranger took i>o share. At length he 
suddenly interrupted them by the question — “ Can you 
tell me when Lord Evandale’s marriage takes place 

“ Very soon, we expect,” answered Jenny, before it 
was possible for her husband to reply ; “ it wad hae 
been ower afore now, but for the death o’ auld Major 
Bellenden.” 

“ The excellent old man !” said the stranger ; “ I heard 
at Edinburgh he was no more — Was he long ill 9” 

“ He couldna be said to hand up his head after his 
brother’s wife and his niece were turned out o’ their ain 
house ; and he had himsellsair borrowing siller to stand 
the law — but it was in the latter end o’ King James’s 
cla)s — and Basil Olifant, who claimed the estate, turned 
a papist to please the managers, and then, naething was to 
be refused him ; sae the law gaed again the leddies at 
last, after they had fought a weary sort o’ years about it j 


238 


TALES or MY LANDLORD. 


and, as I said before, the Major ne’er held up his head 
again. And then cam the pitting awa o’ the Stuart line , 
and, though he had but little reason to like them, he 
couldna brook that, and it clean broke the heart o’ him, 
and creditors cam to Charnwood and cleaned out a’ that 
was there — he was never rich, the gude auld man, for he 
dow’d na see ony body want.” 

“ He was, indeed,” said the stranger, with a faltering 
voice, “ an admirable man — that is, I have heard that he 
was so. — So the ladies were left without fortune as well 
as without a protector*?” 

“ They will neither want the tane nor the tother while 
Lord Evandale lives,” said Jenny ; ‘‘ he has been a true 
friend in their griefs — E’en to the house they live in is 
his lordship’s ; and never man, as my auld gudemither 
used to say, since the days of the patriarch Jacob, serv- 
ed sae lang and sae sair for a wife as gude Lord Evan- 
dale has dune.” 

“ And why,” said the stranger, with a voice that quiv- 
ered with emotion, ‘‘ why was he not sooner rewarded 
by tbe object of his attachment 

“ There was the law-suit to be ended,” said Jenny 
readily, “ forbye many other family arrangements.” 

Na, but,” said Cuddie, “ there was another reason 
forbye ; for the young leddy” 

“ Whisht, baud your tongue, and sup your sowens,” 
said his wife ; “ I see the gentleman’s far frae weel, and 
downa eat our coarse supper — I wad kill him a chicken 
in an instant.” 

“ There is no occasion,” said the stranger ; “ I shall 
want only a glass of water, and to be left alone.” 

“ You’ll gie yoursell the trouble then to follow me,” 
said Jenny, lighting a small lantern, “ and I’ll show you 
the way.” 

Cuddie also proffered his assistance ; but his wife re- 
minded him, ‘‘ That the bairns would be left to fight the- 
gither, and coup ane anither into the fire,” so that he 
remained to take charge of the menage. 


OLD MORTALITY. 


239 


His wife led the way up a little winding path, which, 
after threading some thickets of sweetbriar and honey- 
suckle, conducted to the back-door of a small garden. 
Jenny undid the latch, and they passed through an old- 
fashioned flower-garden, with its clipped yew hedges and 
formal parterres, to a glass-sashed door, which she open- 
ed with a master-key, and lighting a candle, which she 
placed upon a small work-table, asked pardon for leaving 
him there for a few minutes, until she prepared his apart- 
ment. She did not exceed five minutes in these pre- 
parations ; but, when she returned, wa i startled to find 
that the stranger had sunk forward wi h his head upon 
the table, in what she at first apprehended to be a swoon. 
As she advanced to him, however, she could discover 
by his short-drawn sobs that it was a paroxysm of menial 
agony. She prudently drew back until he raised his 
head, and then showing herself, without seeming to have 
observed his agitation, informed him, that his bed was 
prepared. The stranger gazed at her a moment, as if 
to collect the sense of her words. She repeated them, 
and only bending his head, as an indication that he under- 
stood her, he entered the apartment, the door of w^hich 
she pointed out to him. It was a small bed-chamber, 
used, as she informed him, by Lord Evandale when a 
guest at Fairy-knowe, connecting, on one side, with a 
little china-cabinet which opened to the garden, and on 
the other, with a saloon, from which it was only separated 
by a thin wainscot partition. Having wished the stranger 
better health and good rest, Jenny descended as speedily 
as she could to her own mansion. 

“ O, Cuddie !” she exclaimed to her helpmate as she 
entered, “ I doubt we’re ruined folk !” 

“ How can that be 9 What’s the matter wi’ ye 9” 
returned the imperturbed Cuddie, who was one of those 
persons who do not easily take alarm at anything. 

“ Wha d’ye think yon gentleman is 9 — O, that ever ye 
suld hae asked him to light here !” exclaimed Jenny. 

“ Why, w'ha the muckle deil d’ye say he is 9 There’s 
nae law against harbouring and intercommunicating now,” 


240 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


said Cuddie ; “ sae, whig or tory, what need we care 
wha he be 

“ Ay, but it’s ane wi 1 ding Lord Evandale’s marriage 
ajee yet, if it’s no the better looked to,” said Jenny ; 
“ it’s Miss Edith’s first joe, your ain auld maister, Cud- 
die.” 

“ The deil, woman !” exclaimed Cuddie, starting up, 

trow ye that 1 am blind I wad hae kend Mr. Harry 
Morton amang a bunder.” 

“ Ay, but, Cuddie lad,” replied Jenny, “ though ye are 
no blind, ye are no sae notice-taking as I am.” 

Weel, what ior needs ye cast that up to me just now ? 
or what did ye see about the man that was like our 
Maister Harry*?” 

“ 1 will tell ye,” said Jenny ; ‘‘ I jaloused his keeping 
his face frae us, and speaking wi’ a made-like voice, sae 
I e’en tried him wi’ some tales o’ lang syne, and when I 
spake o’ the brose, ye ken, he didna just laugh — he’s ower 
grave for that now-a-days, — but he gae a gledge wi’ his 
ee that I kend he took up what I said. And a’ his 
distress is about Miss Edith’s marriage, and 1 ne’er saw 
a man mair tane down wi’ true love in my days — I might 
say man or woman — only I mind how ill Miss Edith was 
when she first gat word that him and you (ye muckle 
graceless loon) were coming against Tillietudlem wi’ the 
rebels. — But what’s the matter wi’ the man now *?” 

“ What’s the matter wi’ me, indeed !” said Cuddie, who 
was again hastily putting on some of the garments he had 
stripped himself of, “ am I no gaun up this instant to see 
my maister*?” 

“ Atweel, Cuddie, ye are gaun nae sic gate,” said 
Jenny, coolly and resolutely. 

“ The deil’s in the wife!” said Cuddie ; ‘‘ d’ye think 
1 am to be John Tamson’s man, and maistered by wo- 
men a’ the days o’ my life *?” 

“ And wha’s man wad ye be *? And wha wad ye hae 
to maister ye but me, Cuddie, lad ?” answered Jenny 
“ I’ll gar ye comprehend in the making of a hay-band. 
Naebody kens that this young gentleman is living but our- 


OLD MORTALITY. 


24 } 


soils, and frae that he keeps himsellup sae close, I am 
judging that he’s purposing, if he fand Miss Edith either 
married, or just gaun to be married, he wad just slide 
awa easy and gie them nae mair trouble. But if Miss 
Edith kend that he was living, and if she were stand- 
ing before the very minister wi’ Lord Evandale when it 
wa3tauldtoher,l’se warrant she wad say no when she suld 
say yes.” 

“ Weel,” replied Cuddie, “ and what’s my business 
wi’ that if Miss Edith likes her auld joe better than her 
new ane, what for suld she no be free to change her mind 
like ither folk 9 — Ye ken, Jenny, Halliday aye threeps 
he had a promise frae yoursell.” 

“ Halliday’s a liar, and ye’re naething but a gomeril 
to hearken till him, Cuddie. And then for this leddy’s 
choice, lack-a-day ! — ^ye may be sure a’ the gowd Mr. 
Morton has is on the outside o’ his coat, and how can 
he keep Leddy Margaret and the young leddy 

“ Isna there Milnwood said Cuddie. “ Nae doubt, 
the auld laird left his housekeeper the life-rent as he 
heard nought o’ his nephew ; but it’s but speaking the 
auld wife fair, and they may a’ live brawly thegither, 
Leddy Margaret and a’.” 

“ Hout toutj lad,” replied Jenny, “ye ken them little 
to think leddies o’ their rank wad set up house wi’ auld 
Ailie Wilson, when they’re maist ower proud to take fa- 
vours frae Lord Evandale himsell. Na, na, they maun 
follow the camp, if she tak Morton.” 

“ That wad sort ill wi’ the old leddy, to be sure,” 
said Cuddie ; “ she wad hardly win ower a lang day in 
the baggage-wain.” 

“ Then sic a flyting as there wad be between them a' 
about whig and tory,” continued Jenny. 

“ To be sure,” said Cuddie, “ the auld leddy’s unco 
kittle in thae points.’' 

“ And then, Cuddie,” continued his helpmate, who had 
reserved her strongest argument to the last, “ il this mar- 
riage wi’ Lord Evandale is broken oft, what comes o' 
21 VOL. II. 


242 


TALES OF MY LANDLOED. 


our ain bit free house, and the kale-yard, and the cow’s 
•^rass ^ — I trow that baith us and thae bonny bairns will 
be turned on the wide warld!” 

Here Jenny began to whimper — Cuddie writhed him- 
self this way and that way, the very picture of indecision. 
At length he broke out, “ Weel, woman, canna ye tell us 
what we suld do, without a’ this din about it*?” 

“ Just do naething at a’,” said Jenny. “ Never seem 
to ken ony thing about this gentleman, and for your life 
say a word that he suld hae been here or up at the house. 
— An I had kend, I wad hae gien him my ain bed, 
and sleepit in the byre or he had gane up by : but it can- 
na be helpit now. The neist thing’s to get him cannily 
awa the morn, and I judge he’ll be in nae hurry to come 
back again.” 

“ My puir maister !” said Cuddie ; “ and maun I no 
speak to him, then 

“ For your life, no,” said Jenny; “ ye’re no obliged 
to ken him ; and I wadna hae tauld ye, only I feared ye 
wad ken him in the morning.” 

“ Aweel,” said Cuddie, sighing heavily, “ I’se awa to 
pleugh the outfield then ; for, if I am no to speak to him, 
I wad rather be out o’ the gate.” 

“ Very right, my dear hinny,” replied Jenny ; “ nae- 
body has better sense than you when ye crack a bit wi’ 
me ower your affairs, but ye suld ne’er do onything aflf 
hand out o’ your ain head.” 

“ Ane wad think it’s true,” quoth Cuddie ; “ for I hae 
aye had some carline, or quean or another, to gar me 
gang their gate instead o’ my ain. There was first my 
mither,” he continued, as he undressed and tumbled him 
self into bed — “ then there was Leddy Margaret didna 
let me ca’ my soul my ain — then my mither and her 
quarrelled, and pu’ed me twa ways at anes, as if ilk ane 
had an end o’ me, like Punch and the Deevil rugging 
about the Baker at the fair — and now I hae gotten a 
wife,” he murmured in continuation, as he stowed the 
blankets around his person, “ and she’s like to tnk the 
guidmg o’ me a’titegither. 


OLD MORTALITY. 


243 


“ And amna I the best guide ye ever had in a’ your 
life *?” said Jenny, as she closed the conversation by as- 
suming her place beside her husband, and extinguishing 
the candle. 

Leaving this couple to their repose, we have next to 
inform the reader that, early on the next morning, two 
ladies on horseback, attended by their servants, arrived 
at the house of Fairy -knowe, whom, to Jenny’s utter con- 
fusion, she instantly recognized as Miss Bellenden, and 
Lady Emily Hamilton, a sister of Lord Evandale. 

“ Had I no better gang to the house to put things to 
rights.^” said Jenny, confounded with this unexpected 
apparition. 

“ We want nothing but the pass-key,” said Miss Bel- 
lenden ; Gudyill will open the windows of the little par- 
lour.” 

“ The little parlour’s locked, and the lock’s spoiled,” 
answered Jenny, who recollected the local sympathy be- 
ivveen that apartment and the bed-chamber of her guest. 

“ In the red parlour, then,” said Miss Bellenden, and 
rode up to the front of the house, but by an approach 
different from that through which I\Iorton had been con- 
ducted. 

“ AH will be out,” thought Jenny, “ unless I can get 
him smuggled out of the house the back way.” 

So saying, she sped up the bank in great tribulation 
and uncertainty. 

“ 1 had better hae said at ance there w^as a stranger 
there,” was her next natural reflection. “ But then they 
wad hae been for asking him to breakfast. O, save us ! 
what will I do ^ — And there’s Gudyill walking in the gar- 
den, too !” she exclaimed internally on approaching the 
wicket — ‘‘ and I daurna gang in the back way till he’s 
aff the coast. O, sirs ! what will become of us 

In this state of perplexity she approached the ci-devant 
outler, with the purpose of decoying him out of the gar- 
den. But John Gudyill’s temper was not improved by 
his decline in rank and increase in years. Like many 
peevish people, too, he seemed to have an intuitive percep- 


244 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


tion as to what was most likely to teaze those whom he 
conversed with ; and, on the present occasion, all Jen- 
ny’s efforts to remove him from the garden served only 
to root him in it as fast as if he had been one of the 
shrubs. Unluckily, also, he had commenced florist dur- 
ing his residence at Fairy-knowe, and, leaving all other 
things to the charge of Lady Emily’s servant, his first care 
was dedicated to the flowers, which he had taken under 
his special protection, and which he propped, dug, and 
watered, prosing all the while upon their respective merits 
to poor Jenny, who stood by him trembling, and almost 
crying, with anxiety, fear, and impatience. 

Fate seemed determined to win a match against Jenny 
this unfortunate morning. So soon as the ladies entered 
the house, they observed that the door of the little par- 
lour, the very apartment out of which she was desirous of 
excluding them on account of its contiguity to the room in 
which Morton slept, was not only unlocked, but absolute- 
ly ajar. Miss Bellenden was too much engaged with Irer 
own immediate subjects of reflection to take much notice 
of the circumstance, but, desiring the servant to open 
the window-shutters, walked into the room along with her 
friend. 

“ He is not yet come,” she said. “ What can your 
brother possibly mean 9 — Why express so anxious a wish 
that we should meet him here 9 And why not come to 
Castle-Dinnan, as he proposed 9 I own, my dear Emily, 
that, even engaged as we are to each other, and with the 
sanction of your presence, I do not feel that I have done 
quite right in indulging him.” 

“ Evandale was never capricious,” answered his sister ; 
“ I am sure he will satisfy us with his reasons, and if he 
does not, I will help you to scold him.” 

“ What I chiefly fear,” said Edith, “ is his having en- 
gaged in some of the plots of this fluctuating and unhappy 
time. I know his heart is with that dreadful Claverhousc 
and his army, and I believe he would have joined them 
ere now but for my uncle’s death, which gave him so 
much additional trouble on our account. How singnJai 


OLD MORTALITY. 


246 


that one so rational and so deeply sensible of the errors 
of the exiled family, should be ready to risk all for their 
restoration !” 

“ What can I say 9” answered Lady Emily ; ‘‘ it is 
a point of honour with Evandale. Our family have al- 
ways been loyal — he served long in the Guards — the 
Viscount of Dundee' was his commander and his friend 
for years — he is looked on with an evil eye by many of 
his own relations, who set down his inactivity to the score 
of want of spirit. You must be aware, my dear Edith, 
how often family connexions, and early predilections, in- 
fluence our actions more than abstract arguments. But 
I trust Evandale will continue quiet, though, to tell you 
truth, I believe you are the only one who can keep him 
so.” 

“ And how is it in my power*?” said Miss Bellenden. 

“ You can furnish him with the Scriptural apology for 
not going forth with the host, — ‘ he has married a wife, 
and therefore cannot come.’ ” 

I have promised,” said Edith, in a faint voice ; “ but 
I trust I shall not be urged on the score of time.” 

“ Nay,” said Lady Emily, “ I will leave Evandale 
(and here he comes) to plead his own cause.” 

‘‘ Stay, stay, for God’s sakel” said Edith, endeavour- 
ing to detain her. 

“ Not I, not I,” said the young lady, making her es- 
cape j “ the third person makes a silly figure on such 
occasions. When you want me for breakfast, I will be 
found in the willow-walk by the river.” 

As she tripped out of the room. Lord Evandale en- 
tered — “ Good-morrow, brother, and good-by till break- 
fast-time;” said the lively young lady ; “ I trust you will 
g;ive Miss Bellenden some good reasons for disturbing 
her rest so early in the morning.” 

And so saying, she left them together without waiting 
ii reply. 

“ And now, my lord,” said Edith, “ may I desire to 
21 * VOL. II. 


246 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


know the meaning of your singular request to meet you 
here at so early an hour^” 

She was about to add, that she hardly felt herself ex- 
cusable in having complied with it 5 but, upon looking at 
the person whom she addressed, she was struck dumb by 
the singular and agitated expression of his countenance, 
and interrupted herself to exclaim — “ For God’s sake, 
what is the matter 9” 

“ His Majesty’s faithful subjects have gained a great 
and most decisive victory near Blair of Athole ; but, 
alas ! my gallant friend, Lord Dundee” 

“ Has fallen 9” said Edith, anticipating the rest of his 
tidings. 

“ True — most true — he has fallen in the arms of vic- 
tory, and not a man remains of talents and influence 
sufficient to fill up his loss in King James’s service. 
This, Edith, is no time for temporizing with our duty. 
1 have given directions to raise my followers, and I must 
take leave of you this evening.” 

“ Do not think of it, my lord,” answered Edith ; 
“ your life is essential to your friends ; do not throw it 
away in an adventure so rash. What ean your single arm. 
and the few tenants or servants who might follow you, do 
against the force of almost all Scotland, the Highland 
clans only excepted 9” 

‘‘ Listen to me, Edith,” said Lord Evandale. “ J am 
not so rash as you may suppose me, nor are my present 
motives of such light importance as to affect only those 
personally dependent on myself. The Life-Guards, 
with whom I served so long, although new-modelled and 
new-officered by the Prince of Orange, retain a predilec- 
tion for the cause of their rightful master ; and” — (and 
here he whispered as if he feared even the walls of the 
apartment had ears) — when my foot is known to be in 
the stirrup, two regiments of cavalry have sworn 10 re- 
nounce the usurper’s service, and fight under my orders. 
Tliey delayed only till Dundee should descend into 
the Lowlands ; — but, since he is no more, which of his 
successors dare take that decisive step, unless encourag 


OLD MORTALITY. 


247 


ed by the troops declaring themselves ! Meantime, the 
zeal of the soldiers will die away. 1 must bring them to 
a decision while their hearts are glowing with the victory 
their old leader has obtained, and burning to avenge his 
untimely death.” 

“ And will you, on the faith of such men as you know 
these soldiers to be,” said Edith, “ take a part of such 
dreadful moment .^” 

“ I will,” said Lord Evandale — “ I must ; my honour 
and loyalty are both pledged for it.” 

“ And all for the sake,” continued Miss Bellenden, 
“ of a prince, whose measures, while he was on the 
throne, no one could condemn more than Lord Evan- 
dale 

“ Most true,” replied Lord Evandale “ and as I 
resented, even during the plenitude of his power, his in- 
novations on church and state, like a free-born subject, I 
am determined 1 will assert his real rights, when he is in 
adversity, like a loyal one. Let courtiers and sycophants 
flatter power and desert misfortune;! will neither do the 
one nor the other.” 

“ And if you are determined to act what my feeble 
iudgment must still terra rashly, why give yourself the 
pain of this untimely meeting?” 

“ Were it not enough to answer,” said Lord Evan- 
dale, “ that, ere rushing on battle, I wished to bid adieu 
to my betrothed bride — surely it is judging coldly of 
my feelings, and showing too plainly the indifference of 
your own, to question my motive for a request so natural.” 

“ But why in this place, my lord 9” said Edith, “ and 
why with such peculiar circumstances of mystery 

“ Because,” he replied, putting a letter into her hand, 
“ I have yet another request, which I dare hardly proffer, 
even when prefaced by these credentials,” 

In haste and terror Edith glanced over the letter, which 
was from her grandmother. 

‘‘ My dearest childe,” such was its tenor in style and 
spelling, “ I never more deeply regretted the rheuma 
tizm, which disquallified me from riding on horseback, 


248 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


than at this present writing, when I would most have 
wished to be where this paper will soon be, that is at 
Fairy-knowe, with my poor dear Willie’s only child. But 
it is the will of God I should not be with her, which 1 
conclude to be the case, as much for the pain I now suf- 
fer, as because it hath now not given way either to cam- 
momile poultices or to decoxion of wild mustard, where- 
with I have often relieved others. Therefore, I must 
tell you, by writing instead of word of mouth, that, as my 
young Lord Evandale is called to the present campaign, 
both by his honour and his duty, he hath earnestly solic- 
ited me that the bonds of holy matrimony be knitted be- 
fore his departure to the wars between you and him, in 
implement of the indenture formerly entered into for that 
efFeck, whereuntill, as I see no raisonable pbjexion, so I 
trust that you, who have been always a good and obedient 
childe, will not devize any which has less than raison. It 
is trew that the contrax of our house have heretofore 
been celebrated in a manner more befitting *our Rank, 
and not in private, and with few witnesses, as a thing 
done in a corner. But it has been Heaven’s own free- 
will, as well as those of the kingdom where we live, to 
take away from us our estate, and from the King his 
throne. Yet I trust He will yet restore the rightful heir 
to the throne, and turn his heart to the true Protestant 
Episcopal faith, which I have the belter right to expect to 
see even with my old eyes, as I have beheld the royal 
family when they were struggling as sorely with masterful 
usurpers and rebels as they are now ; that is to say, 
when his most Sacred Majesty, Charles the Second of 
happy memory, honoured our poor house of Tillietud- 
lem, by taking his disjune therein,” &;c. &i.c. he. 

We will not abuse the reader’s patience by quoting 
more of Lady Margaret’s prolix epistle. Suffice it to 
say, that it closed by laying her commands on her grand- 
child to consent to the solemnization of her marriage 
without loss of time. 


OLD MORTALITY. 


249 


“ I never thought till this instant,” said Edith, drop- 
ping the letter from her hand, “ that Lord Evandale 
would have acted ungenerously.” 

“ Ungenerously, Edith !” replied her lover. “ And 
how can you apply such a term to my desire to call you 
mine, ere I part from you perhaps forever *?” 

“ Lord Evandale ought to have rernemhered,” said 
Edith, “ that when his perseverance, and, I must add, a 
due sense of his merit and of the obligations we owed 
him, wrung from me a slow consent that I would one day 
comply with his wishes, I made it my condition, that 1 
should not be pressed to a hasty accomplishment of my 
promise ; and now he avails himself of his interest with 
my only remaining relative, to hurry me with precipitate 
and even indelicate importunity. There is more selfish- 
ness than generosity, my lord, in such eager and urgent 
solicitation.” 

Lord Evandale, evidently much hurt, took two or three 
turns through the apartment ere he replied to this accu- 
sation ; at length he spoke — “ I should have escaped this 
painf j 1 charge, durst I at once have mentioned to Miss 
Bellenden my principal reason for urging this request. 
It is one which she will probably despise on her own ac- 
count, but which ought to weigh with her for the sake of 
Lady Margaret. My death in battle must give my whole 
estate to my heirs of entail ; my forfeiture as a traitor, by 
the usurping government, may vest it in the Prince of 
Orange, or some Dutch favourite. In either case, my 
venerable friend and betrothed bride must remain unpro- 
tected and in poverty. Vested with the rights and pro- 
visions of Lady Evandale, Edith will find, in the power 
of supporting her aged parent, some consolation for hav- 
ing condescended to share the titles and fortunes of one 
who does not pretend to be worthy of her.” 

Edith was struck dumb by an argument which she had 
not expected, and was compelled to acknowledge, that 
Lord Evandale’s suit was urged with delicacy as well as 
With consideration. 


250 


TALES or MY LANDLORD. 


“ And yet,” she said, “ such is the waywardness with 
which my heart reverts to former times, that I cannot,” 
(she burst into tears,) “ suppress a degree of ominous 
reluctance at fulfilling my engagement upon such a brief 
summons.” 

“ We have already fully considered this painful sub- 
ject,” said Lord Evandale ; “ and 1 hoped, my dear Edith, 
your own inquiries, as well as mine, had fully convinced 
you that these regrets were fruitless.” 

“ Fruitless indeed !” said Edith, with a deep sigh, 
which, as if by an unexpected echo, was repeated from 
the adjoining apartment. Miss Bellenden started at the 
sound, and scarcely composed herself upon Lord Evan- 
dale’s assurances, that she had heard but the echo of her 
own respiration. 

‘‘ It sounded strangely distinct,” she said, “ and al- 
most ominous ; but my feelings are so harassed that the 
slightest trifle agitates them.” 

Lord Evandale eagerly attempted to sooth her alarm 
and reconcile her to a measure, which, however hasty, 
appeared to him the only means by which he could se- 
cure her independence. He urged his claim in virtue of 
the contract, her grandmother’s wish and command, the 
propriety of insuring her comfort and independence, and 
touched lightly on his own long attachment, which he had 
evinced by so many and such various services. These 
Edith felt the more the less they were insisted upon ; 
and at length,, as she had nothing to oppose to his ardour, 
excepting a causeless reluctance, which she herself was 
ashamed to oppose against so much generosity, she was 
compelled to rest upon the impossibility of having the 
ceremony performed upon such hasty notice, at such a 
time and place. But for all this Lord Evandale was 
prepared, and he explained, with joyful alacrity, that the 
former chaplain of his regiment was in attendance at the 
Lodge with a faithful domestic, once a non-commissioned 
oiSScer in the same corps ; that his sister was also pos- 
sessed of the secret ; and that Headrigg and his wife 
might be added to the list of witnesses, if agreeable to 


OLD MORTALITY. 


2ol 


Miss Bellenden. As to the place, he had chosen it on 
v^ery purpose. The marriage was to remain a secret, 
since Lord Evandale was to depart in disguise very soon 
after it was solemnized, a circumstance which, had their 
union been public, must have drawn upon him the atten- 
tion of the government, as being altogether unaccounta- 
ble, unless from his being engaged in some dangerous 
design. Having hastily urged these motives and explain- 
ed his arrangements, he ran, without waiting for an an- 
swer, to summon his sister to attend his bride, while he 
went in search of the other persons whose presence was 
necessary. 

When Lady Emily arrived, she found her friend in an 
agony of tears, of which she was at some loss to compre- 
hend the reason, being one of those damsels who think 
there is nothing either wonderful or terrible in matrimony, 
and joining with most who knew him in thinking, that it 
could not be rendered peculiarly alarming by Lord Evan- 
dale being the bridegroom. Influenced by these feelings^; 
she exhausted in succession all the usual arguments for 
courage, and all the expressions of sympathy and condo- 
lence ordinarily employed on such occasions. But when 
Lady Emily beheld her future sister-in-law deaf to all 
those ordinary topics of consolation — when she beheld 
tears follow fast and without intermission down cheeks as 
pale as marble^ — when she felt that the hand which she 
pressed in order to enforce her arguments turned cold 
within her grasp, and lay, like that of a corpse, insensi- 
ble and unresponsive to her caresses, her feelings of 
sympathy gave way to those of hurt pride and pettish 
displeasure. 

“ I must own,^” she said, “ that I am something at a 
loss to understand all this. Miss Bellenden. Months 
have passed since you agreed to marry my brother, and 
you have postponed the fulfilment of your engagement 
from one period to another, as if you had to avoid some 
dishonourable or highly disagreeable connection. I think 
I can answer for Lord Evandale, that he will seek no 
woman’s hand against her inclination ; and, though his 


252 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


sister, I may boldly say, that he does not need to urge 
any lady further than her inclinations carry her. You 
will forgive me. Miss Bellenden ; but your present dis- 
tress augurs ill for my brother’s future happiness, and I 
must needs say, that he does not merit all these expres- 
sions of dislike and dolour, and that they seem an odd 
return for an attachment which he has manifested so 
long and in so many ways.” 

“ You are right. Lady Emily,” said Edith, drying her 
eyes, and endeavouring to resume her natural manner, 
though still betrayed by her faltering voice and the pale- 
ness of her cheeks — “ You are quite right — Lord Evan- 
dale merits such usage from no one, least of all from her 
whom he has honoured with his regard. But if 1 have 
given way, for the last time to a sudden and irresistible 
burst of feeling, it is my consolation. Lady Emily, that 
your brother knows the cause ; that I have hid nothing 
from him, and that he at least is not apprehensive of 
finding in Edith Bellenden a wife undeserving of his af- 
fection. But still you are right, and I merit your cen- 
sure for indulging for a moment fruitless regret and pain- 
ful remembrances. It shall be so no longer ; my lot is 
cast with Evandale, and. with him I am resolved to bear 
it. Nothing shall in future occur to excite his complaints, 
or the resentment of his relations; no idle recollections 
of other days shall intervene to prevent the zealous and 
affectionate discharge of my duty ; no vain illusions 
recall the memory of other days” 

As she spoke these words, she slowly raised her eyes, 
which had before been hidden by her hand, to the latticed 
window of her apartment, which was partly open, uttered 
a dismal shriek, and fainted. Lady Emily turned her 
eyes in the same direction, but saw only the shadow of 
a man, which seemed to disappear from the window, and, 
terrified more by the state of Edith than by the appari- 
tion she had herself witnessed, she uttered shriek upon 
shriek for assistance. Her brother soon arrived with the 
chaplain and Jenny Dennison, but strong and vigorous 
remedies were necessary < re tln'v rould reca!! Miss Bel- 


OLD MORTALITY. 


253 


lenden to sense and motion. Even then her language 
was wild and incoherent. 

“ Press me no farther,” she said to Lord Evandale ; 
“ it cannot be — Heaven and earth — the living and the 
dead, have leagued themselves against this ill-omened 
union. Take all I can give — my sisterly regard — my 
devoted friendship. 1 will love you as a sister, and serve 
you as a bondswoman, but never speak to me more of 
marriage.” 

The astonishment of Lord Evandale may easily be 
conceived. 

“ Emily,” he said to his sister, ‘‘ this is your doing — I 
was accursed when 1 thought of bringing you here — some 
of your confounded folly has driven her mad !” 

“ On my word, brother,” answered Lady Emily, 
“ you’re sufficient to drive all the women in Scotland mad. 
Because your mistress seems much disposed to jilt you, 
you quarrel with your sister, who has been arguing in your 
cause, and had brought her to a quiet hearing, when, all 
of a sudden, a man looked in at a window, whom her 
crazed sensibility mistook either for you or some one else, 
and has treated us gratis with an excellent tragic scene.” 

“ What man ^ VVhat window T’ said Lord Evandale, 
in impatient displeasure. “ Miss Bellenden is incapable 
of trifling with me; and yet what else could have” 

“ Hush ! hush i” said Jenny, whose interest lay par- 
ticularly* in shifting further inquiry ; “ for Heaven’s sake, 
my lord, speak low, for my lady begins to recover.” 

Edith was no sooner somewhat restored to herself than 
she begged, in a feeble voice, to be left alone with Lord 
Evandale. All retreated, Jenny with her usual air of of- 
ficious simplicity. Lady Emily and the chaplain with that 
ol awakened curiosity. No sooner had they left the 
apartment than Edith beckoned Lord Evandale to sit be- 
side her on the couch ; her next motion was to take his 
hand, in spite of his surprised resistance, to her lips ; hei 
last was to sink from her seat and to clasp his knees 
22 \Oi.. Ji. 


254 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


“ Forgive me, my lord !” she exclaimed — “ Forgive 
me ! — I must deal most untruly by you, and break a sol- 
emn engagement You have my friendship, my highest 
regard, my most sincere gratitude — You have more ; you 
have my word and my faith — But, O, forgive me, for the 
fault is not mine — you have not my love, and I cannot 
marry you without a sin !” 

“ You dream, my dearest Edith !” said Evandale, per- 
plexed in the utmost degree, — “ you let your imagination 
beguile you ; this is but some delusion of an over-sensitive 
mind ; the person whom you preferred to me has been 
long in a better world, where your unavailing regret can- 
not follow him, or, if it could, would only diminish his 
happiness.” 

“ You are mistaken. Lord Evandale,” said Edith sol- 
emnly. “ I am not a sleep-walker or a mad woman. No 
— 1 could not have believed from any one whatl have seen. 
But, having seen him, I must believe mine own eyes.” 

“ Seen him ? — seen whom 9” asked Lord Evandale, 
in great anxiety. 

“ Henry Morton,” replied Edith, uttering these two 
words as if they were her last, and very nearly fainting 
when she had done so. 

“ Miss Bellenden,” said Lord Evandale, “ you treat 
me like a fool or a child ; if you repent your engagement 
to me,” he continued indignantly, “ 1 am not a man to 
enforce it against your inclination ; but deal with me as a 
man, and forbear this trifling.” 

He was about to go on, when he perceived, from her 
quivering eye and pallid cheek, that nothing less than im- 
posture was intended, and that by whatever means her 
•magination had been so impressed, it was really disturb- 
ed by unaffected awe and terror. He changed his tone, 
and exerted all his eloquence in endeavouring to sooth 
and extract from her the secret cause of such terror 

“ I saw him !” she repeated — 1 saw Henry Morton 
stand at that window, and look into the apartment at the 
moment I was on the point of abjuring him forever. His 
face was darker, thinner, and paler than it was wont to be ; 


OLD MORTALITY. 


his dress was a horseman’s cloak, and hat looped down 
over his face ; his expression was like that he wore on 
that dreadful morning when he was examined by Claver- 
house at Tillietudlem. Ask your sister, ask Lady Emily, 
if she did not see him as well as I. — I know what has 
called him up — he came to upbraid me, that, while my 
heart was with him in the deep and dead sea, I was about 
to give my hand to another. My lord, it is ended be- 
tween you and me — be the consequences what they v/ih, 
sAe cannot marry whose union disturbs the repose of die 
dead.”i9 

“ Good Heaven !” said Evandale, as he paced the 
room, half mad himself with surprise and vexation, “ her 
fine understanding must be totally overthrown, and that 
by the effort which she has made to comply with my ill- 
timed, though well-meant, request. Without rest and at- 
tention her health is ruined forever.” 

At this moment the door opened, and Halliday, who 
had been Lord Evandale’s principal personal attendant 
since they both left the Guards on the Revolution, stum- 
bled into the room with a countenance as pale and ghastly 
as terror could paint it. 

“ What is the matter next, Halliday cried his mas- 
ter, starting up. “ Any discovery of the” 

He had just recollection sufficient to stop short in the 
midst of the dangerous sentence. 

“ No, sir,” said Halliday, “ it is not that, noi anything 
like that ; but I have seen a ghost !” 

“ A ghost ! you eternal idiot !” said Lord Evandale, 
forced altogether out of his patience. “ Has all man- 
kind sworn to go mad in order to drive me so *? — What 
ghost, you simpleton 9” 

“ The ghost of Henry Morton, the whig captain at 
Both well Bridge,” replied Halliday. “He passed by 
me like a fire-flaught when 1 was in the garden !” 

“ This is mid-summer madness,” said Lord Evandale, 
“or there is some strange villany afloat. — Jenny, attend 
your lady to her chamber, while I endeavour to find a 
clew to all this.” 


256 


TALKS OF MY LAIVTJLORD. 


But Lord Evandale’s inquiries were in vain. Jenny 
who might have given (had she chosen) a very satisfactory 
explanation, had an interest to leave the matter in dark- 
ness ; and interest was a matter which now weighed prin 
cipally with Jenny, since the possession of an active and 
aiFectionate husband in her own proper right had altogeth- 
er allayed her spirit of coquetry. She had made the best 
use of the first moments of confusion hastily to remove 
all traces of any one having slept in the apartment adjoin- 
ing to the parlour, and even to erase the mark of foot- 
steps beneath the window through which she conjectured 
Morton’s face had been seen while attempting, ere he left 
the garden, to gain one look at her whom he had so long 
loved, and was now on the point of losing forever. That 
he had passed Halliday in the garden was equally clear ; 
and she learned from her elder boy, whom she had em- 
ployed to have the stranger’s horse saddled and ready for 
his departure, that he had rushed into the stable, thrown 
the chdd a broad gold piece, and, mounting his horse, had 
ridden whh fearful rapidity down towards the Clyde. 
The secret was, therefore, in their own family, and Jenny 
was resolved it should remain so. 

“ For, to be sure,” she said, “ although her lady and 
Halliday kend Mr. Morton by broad daylight, that was 
nae reason I suld own to kenning him in the gloaming and 
by candle-light, and him keeping his face frae Cuddie and 
me a’ the time.” • 

So she stood resolutely upon the negative when exam- 
ined by Lord Evandale. As for Halliday, he could only 
say, that as he entered the garden-door, the supposed ap- 
parition met him walking swiftly, and with a visage on 
which anger and grief appeared to be contending. 

“ He knew him well,” he said, “ having been repeat- 
edly guard upon him, and obliged to write down his marks 
of stature and visage in case of escape. And there were 
few faces like Mr. Morton’s.” 

But what should make him haunt the country where he 
was neither hanged nor shot, he, the said Halliday, did 
not pretend to conceive. 


OLD MORTALITY. 


257 


Lady Emily confessed she had seen the face of a man 
at the window, but her evidence went no farther. John 
Gudyill deponed nil novit in causa. He had left his gai - 
dening to get his morning dram just at the time when the 
apparition had taken place. Lady Emily’s servant was 
waiting orders in the kitchen, and there was not another 
being within a quarter of a mile of the house. 

Lord Evan dale returned perplexed and dissatisfied in 
the highest degree, at beholding a plan which lie thought 
necessary not less for the protection of Edith in contin- 
gent circumstances, than for the assurance of his own hap- 
piness, and which he had brought so very near perfection, 
thus broken off without any apparent or rational cause. 
His knowledge of Edith’s character set her beyond the 
suspicion of covering any capricious change of determina- 
tion by a pretended vision. But he would have set the 
apparition down to the influence of an overstrained imag- 
ination, agitated by the circumstances in which she had 
so suddenly been placed, had it not been for the coincid- 
ing testimony of Halliday, who had no reason for think- 
ing of Morton more than any other person, and knew 
nothing of Miss Bellenden’s vision, when he promulgated 
his own. On the other hand, it seemed in the highest 
degree improbable that Morton, so long and so vainly 
sought after, and who was, with such good reason, sup- 
posed to be lost when the Vryheid of Rotterdam went 
down with crew and passengers, should be alive and lurk- 
ing in this country, where there was no longer any reason 
why he should not openly show himself, since the present 
government favoured his party in politics. When Lord 
Evandale reluctantly brought himself to communicate 
these doubts to the chaplain, in order to get his opinion, 
he could only obtain a long lecture on daamonology, in 
which, after quoting Delrio, and Burthoog, and De 
L’Ancre, on the subject of apparitions, together with sun- 
dry civilians and common lawyers on the nature of testi- 
mony, the learned gentleman expressed his definite and 
determined opinion to be, either that there had been an 
22 * VOL. II. 


25S 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


actual apparition of the deceased Henry Morton’s spirit, 
the possibility of which he was, as a divine and a philos- 
opher, neither fully prepared to admit or to deny ; or else, 
that the said Henry Morton, being still in rerum natura, 
had appeared in his proper person that morning ; or, 
finally, that some strong deceptio visus, or striking simili- 
tude of person, had deceived the eyes of Miss Bellenden 
and of Thomas Halliday. Which of these was the most 
j)robable hypothesis, the Doctor declined to pronounce, 
but expressed himself ready to die in the opinion that 
one or other of them had occasioned that morning’s dis- 
turbance. 

Lord Evandale soon had additional cause for distress- 
ful anxiety. Miss Bellenden was declared to be danger- 
ously ill. 

“ I will not leave this place,” he exclaimed, “ till she 
is pronounced to be in safety. I neither can nor ought 
to do so ; for whatever may have been the immediate oc- 
casion of her illness, I gave the first cause for it by my 
unhappy solicitation.” 

He established himself, therefore, as a guest in the 
family, which the presence of his sister as well as of Lady 
Margaret Bellenden, (who, in despite of her rheumatism, 
caused herself to be transported thither when she heard 
of her grand-daughter’s illness,) rendered a step equally 
natural and delicate. And thus he anxiously awaited, 
until, without injury to her health, Edith could sustain a 
final explanation ere his departure on his expedition. 

“ She shall never,” said the generous young man, “ look 
on her engagement with me as the means of fettering her 
to a union, the idea of which seems almost to unhinge 
her understanding.” 


OXD MORTALITY. 


359 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

Ah, happy hills ! ah, pleasing shades ! 

Ah, fields beloved in vain ! 

Where once my careless childhood strayM, 

A stranger yet to pain. 

Ode on a distant Prospect of Eton College. 

It is not by corporal wants and infirmities only that men 
of the most distinguished talents are levelled, during their 
liletiine, with the common mass of mankind. There are 
periods of mental agitation when the firmest of mortals must 
be ranked with the weakest of his brethren ; and when, in 
paying the general tax of humanity, his distresses are even 
aggravated by feeling that he transgresses, in the indulgence 
of his grief, the rules of religion and philosophy, by which 
he endeavours in general to regulate his passions and his 
actions. It w^as during such a paroxysm that the unfor- 
tunate Morton left Fairy-knowe. To know that his long- 
loved and still-beloved Edith, whose image had filled his 
mind for so many years, was on the point of marriage to 
his early rival, who had laid claim to her heart by so many 
services, as hardly left her a title to refuse his addresses, 
bitter as the intelligence was, yet came not as an unex- 
pected blow'. During his residence abroad he had once 
written to Edith. It was to bid her farewell forever, and 
to conjure her to forget him. He had requested her not 
to answer his letter, yet he half hoped, for many a day, 
that she might transgress his injunction. The letter never 
reached her to whom it was addressed, and Morton, ig- 
norant of its miscarriage, could only conclude himseh 
aid aside and forgotten, according to his own self-denying 
request. All that he had heard of their mutual relations 
since his return to Scotland, prepared him to expect that 
he could only look upon Miss Bellenden as the betrothed 
bride of Lord Evandale ; and, even if freed from the 


260 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


burden of obligation to the latter, it would still have been in- 
consistent with Morton’s generosity of disposition to disturb 
their arrangements, by attempting the assertion of a claim, 
proscribed by absence, never sanctioned by the consent of 
friends, and barred by a thousand circumstances of difficul- 
ty. Why then did he seek the cottage which their broken 
fortunes had now rendered the retreat of Lady Margaret 
Bellenden and her grand-daughter ? He yielded, we are 
under the necessity of acknowledging, to the impulse of an 
inconsistent wish, which many might have felt in his situation 

Accident apprized him, while travelling towards his 
native district, that the ladies, near whose mansion he must 
necessarily pass, were absent; and, learning that Cuddie 
and his wife acted as their principal domestics, he could 
not resist pausing at their cottage, to learn, if possible, 
the real progress which Lord Evandale had made in the 
affections of Miss Bellenden — alas ! no longer his Edith. 
This rash experiment ended as we have related, and he 
parted from the house of Fairy-knowe, conscious that he 
was still beloved by Edith, yet compelled, by faith and 
honour, to relinquish her forever. With what feelings he 
must have listened to the dialogue between Lord Evan- 
dale and Edith, the greater part of which he involuntarily 
overheard, the reader must conceive, for we dare not at- 
tempts describe them. A hundred times he was tempt- 
ed to burst upon their interview, or to exclaim aloud— 
“ Edith, I yet live !” — and as often the recollection of her 
))]ighted troth, and of the debt of gratitude which he 
owed Lord Evandale, (to whose influence with Claver- 
house he justly- ascribed his escape from torture and from 
death) withheld him from a rashness which might indeed 
have involved all in further distress, but gave little pros- 
))ect of forwarding his own happiness. He repressed foi- 
cibly these selfish emotions, though with an agony which 
thrilled his every nerve. 

“ No, Edith !” was his internal oath, “ never w'dl I 
add a thorn to thy pillow — That which Heaven has or 
dained let it be ; and let me not add, by my selfish sor- 
rows, one atom’s weight to the burden thou hast to bear 


OLD MORTALITY. 


261 


f was dead to thee when thy resolution was adopted ; 
and never — never shalt thou know that Henry Morton 
still lives !” 

As he formed this resolution, diffident of his own power 
to keep it, and seeking that hrmness in flight which was 
every moment shaken by his continuing within hearing oi 
Edith’s voice, he hastily rushed from his apartment by the 
little closet and the sashed door which led to the garden. 

But flrmly as he thought his resolution was fixed, lie 
could not leave the spot where the last tones of a voice so 
beloved still vibrated on his ear, without endeavouring to 
avail himself of the opportunity which the parlour window 
afforded to steal one last glance at the lovely speaker. It 
was in this attempt, made while Edith seemed to have her 
eyes unalterably bent upon the ground, that Morton’s pres- 
ence was detected by her raising them suddenly. So 
soon as her wild scream made this known to the unfortu- 
nate object of a passion so constant, and which seemed 
so ill-fated, he hurried from the place as if pursued by 
the furies. He passed Halliday in the garden without re- 
cognizing or, even being sensible that he had seen him, 
threw himself on his horse, and, by a sort of instinct 
rather than recollection, took the first by-road in prefer- 
ence to the public route to Hamilton. 

In all probability this prevented Lord Evandale from 
learning that he was actually in existence ; for the news that 
the Highlanders had obtained a decisive victory at Killie- 
crankie, had occasioned an accurate look-out to be kept by 
order of the government, on all the passes, for fear of some 
commotion among the Lowland Jacobites. They did not 
omit to post sentinels on Bothwell Bridge, and as these men 
had not seen any traveller pass westward in that direction, 
and as, besides, their comrades stationed in the village of 
Bothwell were equally positive that none had gone eastward, 
the apparition, in the existence of which Edith and Halli- 
day were equally positive, became yet more mysterious in 
the judgment of Lord Evandale, who was finally inclined to 
settle in the belief that the heated and disturbed imagina 
tionof Edith had summoned up the phantom she stated 


262 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


nePsSelf to have seen, and that Halliday had, in some un- 
accountable manner, been infected by the same super- 
stition. 

Meanwhile, the by-path which Morton pursued, with all 
the speed which his vigorous horse could exert, brought 
him in a very few seconds to the brink of the Clyde, at a 
spot marked with the feet of horses who were conduct- 
ed to it as a watering-place. The steed, urged as he was 
to the gallop, did not pause a single instant, but throwing 
himself into the river, was soon beyond his depth. The 
plunge which the animal made as his feet quitted the 
ground, with the feeling that the cold water rose above 
his sword-belt, were the first incidents which recalled 
Morton, whose movements had been hitherto mechanical, 
to the necessity of taking measures for preserving himself 
and the noble animal wdiich he bestrode. A perfect 
master of all manly exercises, the management of a horse 
in water was as familiar to him as when upon a meadow. 
He directed the animal’s course somewhat down the 
stream towards a low plain, or holm, which seemed to 
promise an easy egress from the river. In the first and 
second attempt to get on shore, the horse was frustrated 
by the nature of the ground, and nearly fell backwards 
on his rider. The instinct of self-preservation seldom 
fails, even in the most desperate circumstances, to recall 
the human mind to some degree of equipoize, unless when 
altogether distracted by terror, and Morton was obliged 
to the danger in which he was placed for complete recov- 
ery of his self-possession. A third attempt at a spot more 
carefully and judiciously selected, succeeded better than 
the foianer, and placed the horse and his rider in safety 
upon ilie fai tlier and left-hand bank of the Clyde. 

“ But whither,” said Morton, in the bitterness of his 
heart, “ am I now to direct my course 9 or rather, what 
does it signify to which point of the compass a wretch so 
forlorn betakes himself 9 I would to God, could the wish 
be without a sin, that these dark waters had flowed over 
me, and drowned my recollection of that which was, and 
that which is !” 


OLD MORTALITY. 


263 


The sense of impatience, which the disturbed state of 
his feelings had occasioned, scarcely had vented itself in 
these violent expressions, ere he was struck with shame 
at having given way to such a paroxysm. He remember- 
ed how signally the life, which he now held so lightly in 
the bitteniess of his disappointment, had been preserved 
through the almost incessant perils which had beset him 
since he entered upon his public career. 

“ I am a fool !” ne said, “ and worse than a fool, to set 
light by that existence which Heaven has so often preserved 
in the most marvellous manner. Something there yet re- 
mains for me in this world, were it only to bear my sor- 
rows like a man, and to aid those who need my assistance. 
What have I seen, — what have I heard, but the very con- 
clusion of that which I knew was to happen They” — 
(he durst not utter their names, even in soliloquy) — “ they 
are embarrassed and in difficulties. She is stripped of 
her inheritance, and he seems rushing on some dangerous 
career, with which, but for the low voice in which he 
spoke, I might have become acquainted. Are there no 
means to aid or to warn them 9” 

As he pondered upon this topic, forcibly withdrawing 
his mind from his own disappointment, and compelling 
his attention to the affairs of Edith and her betrothed hus- 
band, the letter of Burley, long forgotten, suddenly rushed 
on his memory, like a ray of light darting through a mist. 

“ Their ruin must have been his work,” w^as his inter- 
nal conclusion. “ If it can be repaired, it must be through 
his means, or by information obtained from him. I will 
search him out. Stern, crafty, and enthusiastic as he is, 
my plain and downright rectitude of purpose has more 
than once prevailed with him. I will seek him out, at 
least ; and who knows what influence the information 1 
may acquire from him may have on the fortunes of those 
whom I shall never see more, and who will probably never 
learn that I am now suppressing my own grief, to add, if 
possible, to their happiness.” 

Animated by these hopes, though the foundation was 
but slight, he sought the nearest way to the high-road, 


264 


TALES OF MY LANDLOED. 


and as all the tracks through the valley were known to 
him since he had hunted through them in youth, he had no 
other difficulty than that of surmounting one or two en- 
closures, ere he found himself on the road to the small 
Durgb where the feast of the popinjay had been celebrated. 
He journeyed in a state of mind sad indeed and deject- 
ed, yet relieved from its earlier and more intolerable state 
of anguish ; for virtuous resolution and manly disinterest- 
edness seldom fail to restore tranquillity even where they 
cannot create happiness. He turned his thoughts with 
strong effort upon the means of discovering Burley, and 
the chance there was of extracting from him any know- 
ledge which he might possess favourable to her in whose 
cause he interested himself, and at length formed the re- 
solution of guiding himself by the circumstances in which 
he might discover the object of his quest, trusting, that, 
from Cuddie’s account of a schism betwixt Burley and 
his brethren of the presbyterian persuasion, he might find 
hk^a less rancorously disposed against Miss Bellenden, and 
incloed to exert the power which he asserted himself to 
posses3 over her fortunes more favourably than heretofore. 

Noontide had passed away when our traveller found 
himself in the neighbourhood of his deceased uncle’s hab- 
itation of Milnwood. It rose among glades and groves 
that were chequered with a thousand early recollections 
of joy and sorrow, and made upon Morton that mournful 
impression, soft and affecting, yet, withal, soothing, which 
the sensitive mind usually receives from a return to the 
haunts of childhood and early youth, after having expe- 
rienced the vicissitudes and tempests of public life. A 
strong desire came upon him to visit the house itself. 

“ Old Alison,” bethought, “will not know me, more than 
the honest couple whom 1 saw yesterday. I may indulge 
ray curiosity, and proceed on my journey, without her hav- 
ing any knowledge of my existence. 1 think they said my 
uncle had bequeathed to her my family mansion — Well — be 
it so. I have enough to sorrow for, to enable me to dispense 
with lamenting such a disappointment as that ; and yet 
methinks he has chosen an odd successor in my grumbling 


OLD MORTALITY 26 *) 

old dame, to a line of respectable, if not distinguished 
ancestry. Let it be as it may, I will visit the old mansio i 
at least once more.” 

The house of Milnwood, even in its best days, had 
nothing cheerful about it, but its gloom appeared to be 
doubled under the auspices of the old housekeeper. 
Every thing indeed was in repair ; there were no slate.- 
deficient upon the steep grey roof, and no panes broke;’ 
in the narrow windows. But the grass in the court-yard 
looked as if the foot of man had not been there for years ; 
the doors were carefully locked, and that which admitted 
to the hall seemed to have been shut for a length of time, 
since the spiders had fairly drawn their webs over the 
door-way and the staples. Living sight or sound thei>? 
was none, until, after much knocking, Morton heard the 
little window, through which it was usual to reconnoitre 
visiters, open with much caution. The face of Alison, 
puckered with some score of wrinkles, in addition to those 
with which it was furrowed when Morton left Scotland, 
now presented itself, enveloped in a toy, from under the 
protection of which some of her grey tresses had escap- 
ed in a manner more picturesque than beautiful, whiles 
her shrill tremulous voice demanded the cause of the 
knocking. 

“ I wish to speak an instant with one Alison Wilson 
who resides here,” said Henry. 

“ She’s no at hame the day,” answered Mrs. Wilson, 
in propria persona, the state of whose head-dress, per- 
haps, inspired her with this direct mode of denying her- 
self ; “ and ye are but a mislear’d person to speer for 
her in sic a manner. Ye might hae had an M under your 
belt for Mistress Wilson of Milnwood.” 

“ I beg pardon,” said Morton, internally smiling at find- 
ing in old Ailie the same jealousy of disrespect which she 
used to exhibit upon former occasions — “ 1 beg pardon ; 
I am but a stranger in this country, and have been so long 
abroad, that I have almost forgotten my own language.” 

“ Did ye come frae foreign parts T’ said Ailie ; then 
23 VOL. II. 


266 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


maybe ye may hae heard of a young gentleman of this 
country that they ca’ Henry Morton 

“ I have heard,” said Morton, “ of such a name in 
Germany.” 

“ Then bide a wee bit where ye are, friend — or stay — 
gang round by the back o’ the house, and ye’ll find a laigh 
door ; it’s on the latch, for it’s never barred till sunset. — 
Ye’ll open’t — and tak care ye dinna fa’ ower the tub, foi 
d'.3 entry’s dark — and then ye’ll turn to the right, and 
then ye’ll baud straught forward, and then ye’ll turn to 
the right again, and ye’ll tak heed o’ the cellar stairs, and 
tlien ye’ll be at the door o’ the little kitchen — it’s a’ the 
kitchen that’s at Milnwood now — and I’ll come down t’ye, 
and whate’er ye wad say to Mistress Wilson ye may very 
safely tell it to me.” 

A stranger might have had some difficulty, notwithstand- 
ing the minuteness of the directions supplied by Ailie, to 
pilot himself in safety through the dark labyrinth of pas- 
sages that led from the back-door to the little kitchen, 
but Henry was too well acquainted with the navigation of 
these straits to experience danger, either from the 
Scylla which lurked on one side in shape of a bucking 
tub, or the Charybdis which yawned on the other in the 
profundity of a winding cellar-stair. His only impedi- 
ment arose from the snarling and vehement barking of a 
small cocking spaniel, once his own property, but which, 
unlike to the faithful Argus, saw his master return from 
his wanderings without any symptom of recognition. 

“ The little dogs and all !” said Morton to himself, on 
being disowned by his former favourite. “ I am so chang- 
ed that no breathing creature that I have known and lov 
ed will now acknowledge me !” 

At this moment he had reached the kitchen, and soon 
after the tread of Alison’s high heels, and the pat of the 
crutch-handled cane, which served at once to prop and to 
guide her footsteps, were heard upon the stairs, an annun- 
ciation which continued for some time ere she fairly reach- 
ed the kitchen. 


OLD MORTALITY. 


267 


Morton had, therefore, time to survey the slender pre^ 
parations for housekeeping, which were now’ sufficient in 
the house of his ancestors. The fire, though coals are 
plenty in that neighbourhood, was husbanded with the 
closest attention to economy of fuel, and the small pipkin, 
in which was preparing the dinner of the old woman and 
her maid of-all-work, a girl of twelve years old, intimat- 
ed, by its thin and watery vapour, that Ailie had not 
mended her cheer with her improved fortune. 

When she entered, the head which nodded with self- 
importance — the features in which an irritable peevish- 
ness, acquired by habit and indulgence, strove with a tem- 
per naturally affectionate and good-natured — the coif — 
the apron — the blue checked gown*, were all those of old 
Ailie ; but laced pinners, hastily put on to meet the stran- 
ger, with some other trifling articles of decoration, mark- 
ed the difference between Mrs. Wilson, life-rentrix of 
Milnwood, and the housekeeper of the late proprietor. 

“ What were ye pleased to want wi’ Mrs. Wilson, sir 9 
— I am Mrs. Wilson,” was her first address ; for the five 
minutes time which she had gained for the business of the 
toilette, entitled her, she conceived, to assume the full 
merit of her illustrious name, and shine forth on her guest 
in unchastened splendour. Morton’s sensations, con- 
Ibunded between the past and present, fairly confused him 
so much, that he would have had difficulty in answering 
her, even if he had known well what to say. But as he 
had not determined what character he was to adopt while 
concealing that which was properly his own, he had an 
additional reason for remaining silent. Mrs. Wilson, in 
perplexity, and with some apprehension, repeated her 
question. 

“ What were ye pleased to want wi’ me, sir 9 Ye said 
ye kend Mr. Harry Morton 9” 

“ Pardon me, madam,” answered Henry ; ‘‘ it was of 
one Silas Morton I spoke.” 

The old woman’s countenance fell. 

“ It was his father then ye kent o’, the brother o’ the 
late Milnwood? — ye canna mind him abroad, I wad think 


268 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


— he was come hame afore ye were born. I thought ye 
had brought me news of poor Maister Harry.” 

“ It was from my father I learned to know Colonel 
Morton,” said Henry ; “ of the son I know little or noth- 
ing ; rumour says he died abroad on his passage to 
Holland.” 

“ That’s ower like to be true,” said the old woman with 
a sigh, “ and mony a tear it’s cost my auld een. His uncle, 
poor gentleman, just sough’d awa wi’ it in his mouth. He 
had been gieing me preceeze directions anent the bread and 
the wine, and the brandy, at his burial, and how often it was 
to be handed round the company, (for, dead or alive, he was 
a prudent, frugal, pains-taking man) and then he said, said 
he, “ Ailie,” (he aye ca’d me Ailie,we were auld acquaint- 
ance) “ Ailie, take ye care and baud the gear weel the- 
gither ; for the name of Morton of Milnwood’s gane out 
like the last sough of an auld sang.” And sae he fell out 
o’ ae dwara into another, and ne’er spak a word mair, 
unless it were something we cou’dna mak out, about a 
dipped candle being gude eneugh to see to dee wi’. — He 
cou’d ne’er bide to see a moulded ane, and there was ane, 
by ill luck, on the table.” 

While Mrs. Wilson w'as thus detailing the last moments 
of the old miser, Morton was pressingly engaged in di- 
verting the assiduous curiosity of the dog, which, recov- 
ered from his first surprise, and combining former recol- 
lections, had, after much snuffing and examination, begun 
a course of capering and jumping upon the stranger which 
threatened every instant to betray him. At length; in the 
urgency of his impatience, Morton could not forbear ex- 
claiming, in a tone of hasty impatience, “ Down, Elphin 
Down, sir !” 

‘‘ Ye ken our dog’s name,” said the old lady, struck 
with great and sudden surprise — “ ye ken our dog’s name^ 
and it’s no a common ane. And the creature kens you 
too,” she continued, in a more agitated and shriller tone 
— “ God guide us ! it’s my ain bairn !” 

So saying, the poor old woman threw herself around 
Morton’s neck, clung to him, kissed him as if he had been 


OLD MORTALITY. 


269 


actually her child, and wept for joy. There was no par- 
rying the discovery, if he could have had the heart to 
attempt any further disguise. He returned the embrace 
with the most grateful warmth, and answered — 

1 do indeed live, dear Ailie, to thank you for all your 
kindness, past and present, and to rejoice that there is at 
least one friend to welcome me to my native country.” 

Friends !” exclaimed Ailie, “ ye’ll hae mony friends 
— ye’ll hae mony friends ; for ye will hae gear, hinny — 
ye will hae gear. Heaven mak ye a gude guide o’t ! 
jjut, eh, sirs !” she continued, pushing him back from 
her with her trembling hand and shrivelled arm, and gaz- 
ing in his face as if to read, at more convenient distance, 
the ravages which sorrow rather than time had made or 
his face — “ Eh, sirs ! ye’re sair altered, hinny ; your face 
is turned pale, and your een are sunken, and your bonny 
red-and-white cheeks are turned a’ dark and sun-burnt. 
O weary on the wars ! mony’s the comely face they de- 
stroy. — And when cam ye here, hinny 9 — And where hae 
ye been 9 — And what hae ye been doing 9 — And what 
for did ye na write to us 9 — And how cam ye to pass 
yoursellfor dead 9 — And what for did ye come creeping 
to your ain house as if ye had been an unco body, to gie 
poor auld Ailie sic a start 9” she concluded, smiling 
through her tears. 

It was some time ere Morton could overcome his own 
emotion, so as to give the kind old woman the informa- 
tion which we shall communicate to our readers in the 
next chapter. 


23* VOL. n, 


270 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


— : Aumerle that was, 

But that is gone for being Richard’s friend j 
And, Madam, you must call him Rutland now. 

Richard 11. 

The scene of explanation was hastily removed from 
the little kitchen to Mrs. Wilson’s own matted room; the 
very same which she had occupied as housekeeper, and 
which she continued to retain. “ It was,” she said, “ bet- 
ter secured against sifting winds than the hall, which she 
had found dangerous to her rheumatisms, and it was more 
fitting for her use than the late Milnwood’s apartment, 
honest man, which gave her sad thoughts and as for the 
great oak parlour, it was never opened but to be aired, 
washed, and dusted, according to the invariable practice 
of the family, unless upon their most solemn festivals. 
In the matted room, therefore, they were settled, sur- 
rounded by pickle-pots and conserves of all kinds, which 
the ci-devant housekeeper continued to compound, out of 
mere habit, although neither she herself, nor any one 
else, ever partook of the comfits which she so regularly 
prepared. 

Morton, adapting his narrative to the comprehension of 
his auditor, informed her briefly of the wreck of the ves- 
sel and the loss of all hands, excepting two or three com- 
mon seamen, who had early secured the skiff, and were 
just putting off from the vessel when he leaped from the 
deck into their boat, and unexpectedly, as well as con- 
trary to their inclination, made himself partner of their 
voyage and of their safety. Landed at Flushing, he was 
fortunate enough to meet with an old officer who had been 
in service with his father. By his advice, he shunned 
going immediately to the Hague, but forwarded his letters 
to the court of the Stadtholder. 


OLD MORTALITY. 


271 


“ Our Prince,” said the veteran, ‘‘ must as yet keep 
terms with his father-in-law, and with your King Charles , 
and to approach him in the character of a Scottish male- 
content would render it imprudent for him to distinguish 
you by his favour. Wait, therefore, his orders, without 
forcing yourself on his notice ; observe the strictest pru- 
dence and retirement ; assume for the present a different 
name ; shun the company of the British exiles ; and, 
depend upon it, you will not repent your prudence.” 

Tlie old friend of Silas Morton argued justly. After 
a considerable time had elapsed, the Prince of Orange, 
in a progress through the United States, came to the town 
where Morton, itnpatient at his situation and the incognito 
which he was obliged to observe, still continued, neverthe- 
ness, to be a resident. He had an hour of private inter- 
view assigned, in which the Prince expressed himself 
highly pleased with his intelligence, his prudence, and the 
liberal view which he seemed to take of the factions of 
his native country, their motives and their purposes. 

“ I would gladly,” said William, “ attach you to my 
own person, but that cannot be without giving offence in 
England. But I will do as much for you, as well out of 
respect for the sentiments you have expressed, as for the 
recommendations you have brought me. Here is a com- 
mission in a Swiss regiment at present in garrison in a 
distant province, where you will meet few or none of your 
countrymen. Continue to be Captain Melville, and let 
the name of Morton sleep till better days.” 

“ Thus began my fortune,” continued Morton ; “ and 
my services have, on various occasions, been distinguished 
by his Royal Highness, until the moment that brought him 
to Britain as our political deliverer. His commands must 
excuse my silence to my few friends in Scotland ; and I 
wonder not at the report of iny death, considering the 
wreck of the vessel, and that I found no occasion to use 
the letters of exchange with which I was furnished by the 
liberality of some of them, a circumstance which must 
have confirmed the belief that I had perished.” 


272 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


But, dear hinny,” asked Mrs. Wilson, “ did ye find 
jiae Scotch body at the Prince of Granger’s court that 
kend ye 9 I wad hae thought Morton o’ Milnwood was 
kend a’ through the country.” 

“ I was purposely engaged in distant service,” said 
Morton, “ until a period when few, without as deep and 
kind a motive of interest as yours, Ailie, would have known 
the stripling Morton in Major-General Melville.” 

“ Malville was your mother’s name,” said Mrs. Wilson ; 
“ but Morton sounds far bonnier in my auld lugs. And 
'.vhen ye tak up the lairdship, ye maun tak the auld 
name and designation again.” 

“ I am like to be in no haste to do either the one or 
i!ie other, Ailie, for I have some reasons for the present 
to conceal my being alive from every one but you ; and as 
lor the lairdship of Milnwood, it is in as good hands.” 

“ As gude hands, hinny !” re-echoed Ailie ; “ I’m 
liopefu’ ye are no meaning mine 9 The rents and the 
finds are but a sair fash to me. And I’m ower failed to 
tak a help-mate, though Wylie Mactrickit the writer was 
very pressing and spak very civilly ; but I’m ower auld a 
< at to draw that strae before me. He canna whilliwha 
iiie as he’s dune mony a ane. And then I thought aye 
ye wad come back, and I wad get my pickle meal and 
my soup milk, and keep a’ things right about ye as I used 
to do in your puir uncle’s time, and it wad be just pleas- 
ure eneugh for me to see ye thrive and guide the gear 
canny — Ye’ll hae learned that in Holland, I’se warrant, 
ur they’re thrifty folk there, as I hear tell. — But ye’ll be 
for keeping rather a mair house than puir auld Milnwood 
tliat’s gane ; and, indeed, I would approve o’ your eating 
butcher-meat maybe as aften as three times a-week — it 
keeps the wind out o’ the stamack.” 

“We will talk of all this another time,” said Morton, 
surprised at the generosity upon a large scale, which min- 
gled in Ailie’s thoughts and actions with habitual and sor- 
did parsimony, and at the odd contrast between her love 
of saving and indifference to self-acquisition. “ You 
must know,” he continued, “ that I am in this country only 


OLD MORTALITY. 


273 


for a few days on some special business of importance to 
the government, and therefore, Ailie, not a word of hav- 
ing seen me. At some other time I will acquaint you 
fully with my motives and intentions.” 

“ E’en be it sae, my jo,” replied Ailie, “ I can keep a 
secret like my neighbours ; and weel auld Milnwood 
kend it, honest man, for he tauld me where he keepit 
his gear, and that’s what maist folk like to hae as private 
as possibly may be. — But come awa wi’ me, hinny, till I 
show ye the oak-parlour how grandly it’s keepit, just as 
if ye had been expected hame every day — I loot naebody 
sort it but my ain hands. It was a kind o’ divertisement 
to me, though whiles the tear wan into my ee, and I said 
to myselljwhat needs I fash wi’ grates, and carpets, and 
cushions, and the muckle brass candlesticks ony mail* 7 
for they’ll ne’er come hame that aught it rightfully.” 

With these words she hauled him away to this sanctum 
sanctorum, the scrubbing and cleaning whereof was her 
daily employment, as its high state of good order consti- 
tuted the very pride of her heart. Morton, as he follow- 
ed her into the room, underwent a rebuke for not “ dight- 
ing his shune,” which showed that Ailie had not relin- 
quished her habits of authority. On entering the oak-par- 
lour, he could not but recollect the feelings of solemn awe 
with which, when a boy, he had been affected at his oc- 
casional and rare admission to an apartment which he 
then supposed had not its equal, save in the halls of princes. 
It may be readily supposed, that the worked-worsted 
chairs, with their short ebony legs and long upright backs, 
had lost much of their influence over his mind, that the 
large brass andirons seemed diminished in splendour; that 
the green worsted tapestry appeared no masterpiece of the 
Arras loom ;and that the room looked, on the whole, dark, 
gloomy, and disconsolate. Yet there were two objects, 
“ the counterfeit presentment of two brothers,” which, 
dissimilar as those described by Hamlet, affected his mind 
with a variety of sensations. One full-length portrait rep- 
resented his father, in complete armour, with a counte- 
nance indicating his masculine and determined character 


274 


TAI.ES OF MY LANDLORD. 


and the other set forth his uncle in velvet and brocade; 
looking as if he were ashamed of his own finery, though 
entirely indebted for it to the liberality of the painter. 

“ It was an idle fancy,” Ailie said, “ to dress the honest 
auld man in thae expensive fal-lafls that he ne’er wore in 
his life, instead o’ his douce Raploch grey, and his band 
wi’ the narrow edging.” 

In private, Morton could not help being much of her 
opinion ; for anything approaching to the dress of a gen- 
tleman sat as ill on the ungainly person of his relative, as 
an open or generous expresssion would have done on his 
mean and money-making features. He now extricated 
himself from Ailie to visit some of his haunts in the neigh- 
bouring wood, while her own hands made an addition to 
the dinner she was preparing ; an incident no otherwise 
remarkable than as it cost the life of a fowl, which, for 
any event of less importance than the arrival of Henry 
Morton, might have cackled on to a good old age, ere 
Ailie could have been guilty of the extravagance of killing 
and dressing it. The meal was seasoned by talk of old 
times, and by the plans which Ailie laid out for futurity, 
in which she assigned her young master all the prudential 
habits of her old one, and planned out the dexterity with 
which she was to exercise her duty as governante. Mor- 
ton let the old woman enjoy her day-dreams and castle- 
building during moments of such pleasure, and deferred, 
till some fitter occasion, the communication of his purpose 
again to return and spend his life upon the continent. 

His next care was to lay aside his military dress, whi^ h 
he considered likely to render more difficult his research- 
es after Burley. He exchanged it for a grey double 
and cloak, formerly his usual attire at Milnwood, and which 
Mrs. Wilson produced from a chest of walnut-tree, where- 
in she had laid them aside, without forgetting carefully to 
brush and air them from time to time. Morton retained 
his sword and fire-arms, without which few persons trav 
elled in those unsettled times. When he appeared in his 
new attire, Mrs. Wilson was first thankful “ that they fitted 
him sae decently, since, though he was nae fatter, yet 


OLD MORTALITY. 


275 


he looked raair manly than when he was ta’en frae Miln- 
wood.” 

Next she enlarged on the advantage of saving old 
clothes to be what she called “ beet-masters to the new,” 
and was far advanced in the history of a velvet cloak be- 
longing to the late Milnwood, which had first been con- 
verted to a velvet doublet, and then into a pair of breeches, 
and appeared each time as good as new, when Morton 
interrupted her account of its transmigration to bid her 
good-by. 

He gave, indeed, a sufficient shock to her feelings, by 
expressing the necessity he was under of proceeding on 
his journey that evening. 

“ And whar are ye gaun ? — And what wad ye do that 
for — And whar wad ye sleep but in your ain house, 
after ye hae been sae mony years frae hame 9” 

“ 1 feel all the unkindness of it, Ailie, but it must be 
so ; and that was the reason that I attempted to conceal 
myself from you, as I suspected ye would not let me 
part from you so easily.” 

“ But whar are ye gaun, then 9” said Ailie, once more. 
“ Saw e’er mortal e’en the like o’ you, just to come ae 
moment, and flee awa like an arrow out of a bow the 
neist 9” 

“ I must go down,” replied Morton, “ to Niel Blane 
the Piper’s HowfF ; he can give me a bed, I suppose 

“ A bed 9 I’se warrant can he,” replied Ailie, “ and 
gar ye pay weel for’t into the bargain. Laddie, I dare 
say ye hae lost your wits in thae foreign parts, to gang and 
gie siller for a supper and a bed, and might hae baith for 
naething, and thanks t’ye for accepting them.” 

“ I assure you, Ailie,” said Morton, desirous to silence 
her remonstrances, “ that this is a business of great im- 
portance, in which I may be a great gainer, and cannot 
possibly be a loser.” 

“ I dinna see how that can be, if ye begin by gieing 
maybe the fee o’ twal shillings Scots for your supper ; 
but young folks are aye venturesome, and think to get 


276 


TAXES OF MY XANDXORD. 


siller that way. My puir auld master took a surer gait, 
and never parted wi’ it when he had anes gotten’t.” 

Persevering in his desperate resolution, Morton took 
leave of Ailie, and mounted his horse to proceed to the 
little town, after exacting a solemn promise that she would 
conceal his return until she again saw or heard from him 

“ 1 am not very extravagant,” was his natural reflec- 
tion, as he trotted slowly towards the town ; “ but were 
Ailie and I to set up house together, as she proposes, I 
ihink my profusion would break the good old creature’s 
heart before a week were out.” 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

Where’s the jolly host 

You told me of ? ’T has been my custom ever 
To parley with mine host. 

Lovers? Progress. 

Morton reached the borough town without meeting 
with any remarkable adventure, and alighted at the little 
inn. It had occurred to him more than once, while upon 
his journey, that his resumption of the dress which he had 
worn while a youth, although favourable to his views in 
other respects, might render it more difficult for him to 
remain incogyiito. But a few years of campaigns and 
wandering had so changed his appearance, that he had 
great confidence that in the grown man, whose brows ex- 
hibited the traces of resolution and considerate thought, 
none would recognize the raw and bashful stripling who 
won the game of the popinjay. The only chance was, 
that here and there some whig, whom he had led to bat- 
tle, might remember the Captain of the Milnwood Marks- 
men ; but the risk, if there was any, could not be guard- 
ed against. 


OLD MORTALITY. 


277 


The Howff seemed full and frequented as if possessed 
of all its old celebrity. The person and demeanour of 
Niel Blane, more fat and less civil than of yore, intimat- 
ed that he had increased as well in purse as in corpu- 
lence ; for in Scotland a landlord’s complaisance for his 
guests decreases in exact proportion to his rise in the 
world. His daughter had acquired the air of a dexter- 
ous bar-maid, undisturbed by the circumstances of love 
and war, so apt to perplex her in the exercise of her 
vocation. Both showed Morton the degree of attention 
which could have been expected by a stranger travelling 
without attendants, at a time when they w^ere particularly 
the badges of distinction. He took upon himself exactly 
the character his appearance presented, — went to the 
stable and saw his horse accommodated, — then returned 
to the house, and, seating himself in the public room, 
(for to request one to himself, would, in those days, have 
been thought an overweening degree of conceit,) he 
found himself in the very apartment in which he had 
some years before celebrated his victory at the game of 
the popinjay, a jocular preferment which led to so many 
serious consequences. 

He felt himself, as may well be supposed, a much 
changed man since that festivity ; and yet, to look around 
him, the groups assembled in the HowfF seemed not dis- 
similar to those which the same scene had formerly 
presented. Two or three burghers husbanded their 
“ dribbles o’ brandy two or three dragoons lounged 
over their muddy ale, and cursed the inactive times that 
allowed them no better cheer. Their Cornet did not, 
indeed, play at backgammon with the curate in his cas- 
sock, but he drank a little modicum of aqua mirabilis 
with the grey-cloaked presbyterian minister. The scene 
was another, and yet the same, differing only in persons, 
but corresponding in general character. 

“ Let the tide of the world wax or wane as it will,” 
Morton thought, as he looked around him, “ enough will 
be found to lill the places which chance renders vacant ; 

24 ’/ni.. n. 


278 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


and, in the usual occupations and amusements of life, 
human heings will succeed each other, as leaves upon 
the same tree, with the same individual difference, and 
the same general resemblance.” 

After pausing a few minutes, Morton, whose experi- 
ence had taught him the readiest mode of securing at- 
tention, ordered a pint of claret, and, as the smiling 
landlord appeared with the pewter measure foaming fresh 
from the tap, (for bottling wine was not then in fashion,) 
he asked him to sit down and take a share of the good 
cheer. This invitation was peculiarly acceptable to Niel 
Blane, who, if he did not positively expect it from every 
guest not provided with better company, yet received it 
.from many,andwasnot a whit abashed or surprised at the 
summons. He sat down, along with his guest, in a se- 
cluded nook near the chimney ; and while he received 
encouragement to drink by far the greater share of the 
liquor before them, he entered at length, as a part of his 
expected functions, upon the news of the country — the 
births, deaths, and marriages, — the change of property 
— the downfall of old families, and the rise of new. But 
politics, now the fertile source of eloquence, mine host 
did not care to mingle in his theme, and it was only in 
answer to a question of Morton, that he replied, with 
an air of indifference, “ Um ! ay ! we aye hae sodgers 
amang us, mair or less. There’s a wheen German horse 
down at Glasgow yonder ; they ca’ their commander 
Wittybody, or some sic name, though he’s as grave and 
grewsome an auld Dutchman as e’er 1 saw.” 

“ Wittenbold, perhaps said Morton ; “ an old 
man, with grey hair and short black moustaches — speaks 
seldom 

“ And smokes for ever,” replied Niel Blane. “ I see 
your honour kens the man. He may be a very gude man 
too, for aught I see, that is, considering he is a sodger 
and a Dutchman ; but if he were ten generals, and as 
mony Wittybodies, he has nae skill in the pipes ; he 
gar’d me stop in the middle of Torphichen’s Rant, the 
best piece o’ music tlmt ever bag gae wind to.” 


OLD MORTALITY. 


279 


“ But these fellows,” said Morton, glancing his eye 
owards the soldiers that were in the apartment, “ are 
lot of his corps ?” 

“ Na, na, these are Scotch dragoons,” said mine host ; 
‘‘ our ain auld caterpillars ; these were Claver’se lads a 
while syne, and wad he again, maybe, if he had the lang 
ten in his hand.” 

“ Is there not a report of his death ?” inquired Morton. 

“ Troth is there,” said the landlord ; “ your honour is 
right — there is sic a fleeing rumour ; but, in my puir opin- 
ion, it’s lang or the deil die. 1 wad hae the folks here 
look to themsells. If he makes an outbreak, he’ll be doun 
frae the hielands or I could drink this glass — and whare are 
they then ? A’ thae hell-rakers o’ dragoons wad be at his 
whistle in a moment. Nae doubt they’re Willie’s men 
e’en now, as they were James’s awhile syne — and reason 
good — they fight for their pay ; what else hae they to fight 
for ? They hae neither lands nor houses, I trow. There’s 
ae glide thing o’ the change, or the Revolution, as they 
ca’ it, — folks may speak out afore thae birkies now, and 
nae fear o’ being haul’d awa to the guard-house, or hav- 
ing the thumikins screwed on your finger-ends, just as I 
wad drive the screw through a cork.” 

There was a little pause, when Morton, feeling confi- 
dent in the progress he had made in mine host’s familiar- 
ity, asked, though with the hesitation proper to one who 
puts a question on the answer to which rests something of 
importance, — “ Whether Blane knew a woman in that 
neighbourhood called Elizabeth Maclure T’ 

“ Whether I ken Bessy Maclure f” answered the 
’andlord, with a landlord’s laugh — “ How can I but ken 
my ain wife’s (haly be her rest!)— my ain wife’s first gude- 
man’s sister, Bessie Maclure ^ an honest wife she is, but 
sair she’s been trysted wi’ misfortunes, — the loss o’ twa 
decent lads o’ sons, in the time o’ the persecution, as they 
ca’ it now-a-days ; and doucely and decently she has 
home her burden, blaming nane, and condemning nane. 
If there’s an honest woman in the world, it’s Bessie 
Maclure. And to lose her twa sons, as I was saying. 


280 


TALES OF MT LANDLORD. 


and to hae dragoons clinked down on her for a month 
bypast — for, be whig or tory uppermost, they aye quarter 
thae loons on victuallers, — to lose, as I was saying” 

“ This woman keeps an inn, then interrupted 
Morton. 

“ A public, in a puir way,” replied Blane, looking 
round at his own superior accommodations — “ a sour 
browst o’ sma’ ale that she sells to folk that are ower 
drouthy wi’ travel to be nice ; but naething to ca’ a stir- 
ring trade or a thriving change-house.” 

“ Can you gel me a guide there f” said Morton. 

“ Your honour will rest here a’ the night ? — ye’ll 
hardly get accommodation at Bessie’s,” said Niel, whose 
regard for his deceased wife’s relative by no means ex- 
tended to sending company from his own house to hers. 

“ There is a friend,” answered Morton, “ whom I am 
to meet with there, and I only called here to take a stir- 
rup-cup and inquire the way.” 

“ Your honour had better,” answered the landlord, 
with the perseverance of his calling, “ send some ane to 
warn your friend to come on here.” 

“ I tell you, landlord,” answered Morton impatiently, 
“ that will not serve my purpose ; I must go straight to 
this w^oman Maclure’s house, and I desire you to find me 
a guide.” 

“ Aweel, sir, ye’ll choose for yoursell, to be sure,” 
said Niel Blane, somewhat disconcerted ; “ but deil 
a guide ye’ll need, if ye gae doun the water for twa 
mile or sae, as gin ye were bound for Milnwood-house, 
and then tak the first broken disjasked-looking road thaj 
makes for the hills — ye’ll kent by a broken ash-tree that 
stands at the side o’ a burn just where the roads meet, 
and then travel out the path — ye canna miss Widow Mac- 
lure’s public, for deil another house or hauld is on the 
road for ten lang Scots miles, and that’s w^orth twenty 
English. 1 am sorry your honour would think o’ gaun 
out o’ my house the night. But my wdfe’s gude-sister is 
a decent woman, and it’s no loss that a friend gets.” 


OI.D MORTAIiITT. 


281 


Morton accordingly paid his reckoning, and departed. 
The sunset of the summer day placed him at the ash- 
tree, where the path led up towards the moors. 

“ Here,” he said to himself, “ my misfortunes com- 
menced ; for just here, when Burley and I were about 
to separate on the first night we ever met, he was alarm- 
ed by the intelligence, that the passes were secured by 
soldiers lying in wait for him. Beneath that very ash 
sat the old woman who apprized him of his danger. 
How strange that my whole fortunes should have become 
inseparably interwoven with that man’s, without anything 
more on ray part, than the discharge of an ordinary duty 
of humanity ! Would to Heaven it were possible 1 could 
find my humble quiet and tranquillity of mind upon the 
spot where I lost them !” 

Thus arranging his reflections betwixt speech and 
thought, he turned his horse’s head up the path. 

JEvening lowered around him as he advanced up the nar- 
row dell which had once been a wood, but was now a ravine 
divested of trees, unless where a few, from their inacces- 
sible situation on the edge of precipitous banks, or cling- 
ing among rocks and huge stones, defied the invasion of 
men and of cattle, like the scattered tribes of a conquer- 
ed country, driven to take refuge in the barren strength 
of its mountains. These too, wasted and decayed, 
seemed rather to exist than to flourish, and only served 
to indicate what the landscape had once been. But the 
stream brawled down among them in all its freshness and 
vivacity, giving the life and animation which a mountain 
rivulet alone can confer on the barest and most savage 
scenes, and which the inhabitants of such a country miss 
when gazing even upon the tranquil winding of a majestic 
stream through plains of fertility, and beside palaces of 
splendour. The track of the road followed the course 
of the brook, which was now visible, and now only to be 
distinguished by its brawling heard among the stones, or 
in the clefts of the rock, that occasionally interrupted its 
course. 

24* VOL II 


282 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


“ Murmurer that thou art,” said Morton, in the enthu- 
siasm of his reverie, — “ why chafe with the rocks tliat 
stop thy course for a moment 9 There is a sea to receive 
ihee in its bosom ; and there is an eternity for man when 
his fretful and hasty course through the vale of time shall 
be ceased and over. What thy petty fuming is to the deep 
and vast billows of a shoreless ocean, are our cares, hopes, 
fears, joys, and sorrows, to the objects which must oc- 
cupy us through the awful and boundless succession of 
ages !” 

Thus moralizing, our traveller passed on till the dell 
opened, and the banks, receding from the brook, left a little 
green vale, exhibiting a croft, or small field, on which some 
corn was growing, and a cottage, whose walls were not 
above five feet high, and whose thatched roof, green with 
moisture, age, house-leek, and grass, had in some places 
suffered damage from the encroachment of two cows, 
whose appetite this appearance of verdure had diverted 
from their more legitimate pasture. An ill-spelt and 
worse-written inscription, intimated to the traveller that" 
he might here find refreshment for man and horse ; — no 
unacceptable intimation, rude as the hut appeared to be, 
considering the wild path he had trod in approaching it, 
and the high and waste mountains which rose in desolate 
dignity behind this humble asylum. 

“ It must indeed have been,” thought Morton, “ in 
some such spot as this, that Burley was likely to find a 
congenial confidant.” 

As he approached, he observed the good dame of the 
house herself, seated by the door ; she had hitherto been 
concealed from him by a huge alder bush. 

“ Good evening, mother,” said the traveller. “ Your 
name is Mistress Maclure 

“ Elizabeth Maclure, sir, a poor widow,” was the reply. 

Can you lodge a stranger for a night *?” 

“ I can, sir, if he will be pleased with the widow’s 
cake and the widow’s cruize.” 


OLD MORTALITY. 


283 


“ I have been a soldier, good dame,” answered Mor- 
ion, “ and nothing can come amiss to me in the way of 
entertainment.” 

“ A sodger, sir*?” said the old woman with a sigh, 
“ God send ye a better trade!” 

“ It is believed to be an honourable profession, my 
good dame. 1 hope you do not think the worse of me 
for having belonged to it 9” 

“ I judge no one, sir,” replied the woman, “ and 
vour voice sounds like that of a civil gentleman ; but I 
hae witnessed sae muckle ill wi’ sodgering in this puir 
land, that I am e’en content that I can see nae rnair o’t 
wi’ these sightless organs.” 

As she spoke thus, Morton observed that she was blind. 

“ Shall 1 not be troublesome to you, my good dame F” 
said he, compassionately ; “ your infirmity seems ill cal- 
culated for your profession.” 

“ Na, sir,” answered the old woman ; “ I can gang 
about the house readily eneugh ; and I hae a bit lassie to 
help me, and the dragoon lads will look after your horse 
when they come hame frae their patrol, for a sma’ mat- 
ter ; they are civiller now than lang syne.” 

Upon these assurances, Morton alighted. 

“ Peggy, my bonny bird,” continued the hostess, ad- 
dressing a little girl of twelve years old, who had by this 
time appeared, “ tak the gentleman’s horse to the stable, 
and slack his girths, and tak afF the bridle, and shake 
down a lock o’ hay before him, till the dragoons come 
back. — Come this way, sir,” she continued ; “ ye’ll find 
my house clean, though it’s a puir ane. 

Morton followed her into the cottage accordingly. 


264 


TALES OF MY 1A.NI»L0BD. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

Then out and spake the auld mother. 

And fast her tears did fa' — 

" Ye wadna be warn’d, my son Johnie, 

Frae the hunting to bide awa !” 

Old Ballad. 

When he entered the cottage, Morton perceived that 
the old hostess had spoken truth. The inside of the hut 
belied its outward appearance, and was neat, and even 
comfortable, especially the inner apartment, in which the 
hostess informed her guesi that he was to sup and sleep. 
Refreshments were placed before him, such as the little 
inn afforded ; and, though he had small occasion for 
them, he accepted the offer, as the means of maintaining 
some discourse with the landlady. Notwithstanding her 
blindness, she was assiduous in her attendance, and seem- 
ed, by a sort of instinct, to find her way to what she 
W'anted. 

“ Have you no one but this pretty little girl to assist 
you in waiting on your guests 9” was the natural question. 

“ None, sir,” replied his old hostess ; “ 1 dwell alone, 
like the widow of Zarephath. Few guests come to this 
puir place ; and I haena custom eneugh to hire servants. 
1 had anes twa tine sons that lookit after a’ thing — But 
God gives and takes away^ — His name be praised !” she 
continued, turning her clouded eyes towards Heaven — “ I 
was anes better off, that is, warldly speaking, even since I 
lost them ; but that was before this last change.” 

“ Indeed !” said Morton, “ and yet you are a presby-* 
terian, my good mother ?” 

“ 1 am, sir ; praised be the light that showed me the 
right way,” replied the landlady. 

“ Then, I should have thought,” continued the guest, 
“ the Revolution would have brought you nothing but good 


OTiD MORTAT^ITT. 


285 


“ If,” said the old woman, it has brought the land 
gude, and freedom of worship to tender consciences, it’s 
little matter what it has brought to a puir blind worm like 
me.” 

“ Still,” replied Morton, “ I cannot see how it could 
possibly injure you.” 

“ It’s a lang story, sir,” answered his hostess, with a 
*«gh. But ae night, sax weeks or thereby afore Both- 
well Brigg, a young gentleman stopped at this puir cottage, 
stiff and bloody with wounds, pale and dune out wi’ riding, 
and his horse sae weary he couldna drag ae foot after the 
other, and his foes were close ahint him, and he was ane o’ 
our enemies — What could I do, sir? — You that’s a sodger 
will think me but a silly auld wife — but I fed him, and re- 
lieved him, and keepit him hidden till the pursuit was ower.” 

“ And who,” said Morton, “ dares disapprove of your 
having done so ?” 

“ I kenna,” answered the blind woman — “ I gat ill-will 
about it amang some o’ our ain folk. They said I should 
hae been to him what Jael was to Sisera — But weel I wot 
I had nae divine command to shed blood, and to save it 
was baith like a woman and a Christian. — And then they 
said I wanted natural affection, to relieve ane that belang- 
ed to the band that murdered my twa sons.” 

“ That murdered your two sons 9” 

“ Ay, sir ; though maybe ye’ll gie their deaths another 
name — The tane fell wi’ sword in hand, fighting for a 
broken national Covenant ; the tother — O, they took him 
and shot him dead on the green before his mother’s face ! 
— My auld een dazzled when the shots were looten off, 
and, to my thought, they waxed weaker and weaker 
ever since that weary day — and sorrow, and heart-break, 
and (ears that would not be dried, might help on the dis- 
order. But, alas ! betraying Lord Evandale’s young 
blood to his enemies’ sword wad ne’er hae brought my 
Ninian and Johnie alive again.” 

‘‘ Lord Evandale ?” said Morton, in surprise ; “ Was it 
I ..ord Evandale whose life you saved ?” 


28 G 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


In troth, even his,” she replied. “ And kind he was 
to me after, and gae me a cow and calf, malt, meal, and 
siller, and nane durst steer me when he was in power. But 
we live on an outside bit of Tillietudlem land, and the es- 
tate was sair plea’d between Leddy Margaret Bellenden, 
and the present laird, Basil Olifant, and Lord Evandale 
backed the auld leddy for love o’ her daughter IMiss 
Edith, as the country said, ane o’ the best and bonniest 
lassies in Scotland. But they behuved to gie way, and 
Basil gat the Castle and land, and on the back o’ that 
came the Revolution, and wha to turn coat faster than 
the laird 7 for he said he had been a true whig a’ the 
time, and turned papist only for fashion’s sake. And 
then he got favour, and Lord Evandale’s head was un- 
der water ; for he was ower proud and manfu’ to bend 
to every blast o’ wind, though mony a ane may ken as 
weel as me, that be his ain principles as they might, he 
was nae ill friend to our folk when he could protect us, 
and far kinder than Basil Olifant, that aye keepit the 
cobble head doun the stream. But he was set by and ill 
looked on, and his word ne’er asked ; and then Basil, 
wha’s a revengefu’ man, set himsell to vex him in a’ shapes, 
and especially by oppressing and despoiling the auld 
blind widow, Bessie Maclure, that saved Lord Evandale’s 
life, and that he was sae kind to. But he’s mista’en, if 
that’s his end ; for it will be lang or Lord Evandale hears a 
word frae me about the selling my kye for rent or e’er 
it was due, or the putting the dragoons on me when the 
country’s quiet, or ony thing else that will vex him — I 
can bear my ain burden patiently, and warld’s loss is the 
least part o’t.” 

Astonished and interested at this picture of patient, 
grateful and high-minded resignation, Morton could not 
help bestowing an execration upon the poor-spirited ras- 
cal who had taken such a dastardly course of vengeance. 

“ Dinna curse him, sir,” said the old woman ; “ I have 
heard a good man say, that a curse was like a stone flung 
up to the heavens, and maist like to return on the head 
that sent it. But if ye ken Lord Evandale, bid him look 


01.D MORTAIITT. 


287 


to himsell, for 1 hear strange words pass atween the sod- 
gers that are lying here, and his name is often mention 
ed ; and the tane o’ them has been twice up at Tillietud- 
lem. He’s a kind of favourite wi’ the laird, though he 
wais in former times ane o’ the maist cruel oppressors 
ever rade through a country (out-taken Sergeant Both- 
well) — they ca’ him Inglis.” ^ 

“ I have the deepest interest in Lord Evandale’s safe- 
ty,” said Morton, “ and you may depend on my finding 
some mode to apprize him of these suspicious circum- 
stances : And, in return, my good friend, will you indulge 
me with another question 9 Do you know anything of 
Quintin Mackell of Irongray 9” 

“ Do I know whom echoed the blind woman, in a 
tone of great surprise and alarm. 

“ Quintin Mackell of Irongray,” repeated Morton ; 
“ is there anything so alarming in the sound of that 
name 

“ Na, na,” answered the woman with hesitation, “ but 
to hear him asked after by a stranger and a sodger — 
Gude protect us, what mischief is to come next !” 

“ None by my means, I assure you,” said Morton ; 
“ the subject of my inquiry has nothing to fear from me, 
if, as I suppose, this Quintin Mackell is the same with 
John Bal ” 

“ Do not mention his name,” said the widow, pressing 
his lips with her fingers. “ I see you have his secret and 
his pass-word, and I’ll be free wi’ you. But, for God’s 
sake, speak lound and low. In the name of Heaven, I 
trust ye seek him not to his hurt! — Ye said ye w^ere a 
sodger?” 

“ I said truly ; but one he has nothing to fear from. I 
commanded a party at Bothwell Bridge.” 

“ Indeed 9” said the woman. “ And verily there is 
something in your voice I can trust — Ye speak prompt 
and readily, and like an honest man.” 

“ I trust I am so,” said Morton. 

“ But nae displeasure to you, sir, in thae waefu’ times,’' 
continued Mrs. Marlure, “ the hand of brother is against 


288 TALES OE MY LANDLORD. 

brother, and he fears as mickle dmaist frae this govern- 
ment as e’er he did frae the auld persecutors.” 

“ Indeed 9” said Morton, in a tone of inquiry ; “ I was 
not aware of that. But 1 am only just now returned 
from abroad.” 

“ I’ll tell ye,” said the blind woman, first assuming an 
attitude of listening that showed how effectually her powers 
of collecting intelligence had been transferred from the 
eye to the ear ; for, instead of casting a glance of circum- 
spection about her, she stooped her face, and turned her 
head slowly around, in- such a manner as to ensure that 
there was not the slightest sound stirring in the neigh- 
bourhood, and then continued : “ I’ll tell ye. Ye ken 
how he has laboured to raise up again the Covenant, 
burned, broken, and buried in the hard hearts and selfish 
devices of this stubborn people. Now when he went to 
Holland, far from the countenance and thanks of the 
great, and the comfortable fellowship of the godly, both 
whilk he was in right to expect, the Prince of Orange 
wad show him no favour, and the ministers no godly com- 
munion. This was hard to bide for ane that had suffered 
and done mickle — ower mickle it may be — but why suld 
I be a judge He cam back to me and to the auld 
place o’ refuge that had often received him in his dis- 
tresses, mair especially before the great day of victory 
at Drumclog, for I sail ne’er forget how he was bending 
hither of a’ nights in the year on that e’ening after the 
play when young Milnwood wan the popinjay ; but I 
warned him off for that time.” 

“ What!” exclaimed Morton, “ it was you that sat in 
your red cloak by the high-road, and told him there was 
a lion in the path 

“ In the name of heaven I wha are ye 9” said the old 
woman, breaking off her narrative in astonishment. But 
be wha ye may,” she continued, resuming it with tran- 
quillity, “ ye can ken naething waiir o’ me than that I hae 
been willing to save the life o' friend and foe.” 

“ I know no ill of you, Mrs. Maclure, and I mean no ill 
by you — I only wished to show yon that 1 know so much 


OLD MORTALITY. 


289 


of this person’s affairs, that I might be safely intrusted 
with the rest. Proceed, if you please, in your narra- 
tive.” 

“ There is a strange command in your voice,” said the 
blind woman, “ though its tones are sweet. — I have little 
mair to say. The Stuarts hae been dethroned, and Wil- 
liam and Mary reign in their stead, but nae mair word 
o’ the Covenant than if it were a dead letter. They 
hae taen the indulged clergy, and an Erastian General 
Assembly of the ance pure and triumphant Kirk of Scot- 
land, even into their very arms and bosoms. Our faithfu’ 
champions o’ the testimony agree e’en waur wi’ this than 
wi’ the open tyranny and apostacy of the persecuting times, 
for souls are hardened and deadened, and the mouths of 
fasting multitudes are crammed with fizenless bran in- 
stead of the sweet word in season ; and mony a hungry, 
starving creature, when he sits dowm on a Sunday fore- 
noon to get something that might warm him to the great 
work, has a dry clatter o’ morality driven about his lugs, 
and ” 

“ In short,” said Morton, desirous to stop a discussion 
which the good old woman, as enthusiastically attached 
to her religious profession as to the duties of humanity, 
might probably have indulged longer — “ In short, you are 
not disposed to acquiesce in this new government, and 
Burley is of the same opinion *?” 

“ Many of our brethren, sir, are of belief we fought 
for the Covenant, and fasted, and prayed, and suffered 
for that grand national league, and now we are like nei- 
ther to see nor hear tell of that which we suffered, and 
fought, and fasted, and prayed for. And anes it was 
thought something might be made by bringing back the 
auld family on a new bargain and a new bottom, as after 
a’, when King James went awa, I understand the great 
quarrel of the English against him was in behalf of seven 
unhallowed prelates ; and sae, though ae part of our 
people were fre^ to join wd’ the present model, and levied 
an armed regiment under the Yerl of Angus, yet our hon- 
25 VOL. II 


290 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


est friend, and others that stude up for purity of doctrine 
and freedom of conscience, were determined to hear the 
breath o’ the Jacobites before they took part again them, 
fearing to fa’ to the ground like a wall built with unslack- 
ed mortar, or from sitting between twa stools.” 

“ They chose an odd quarter,” said Morton, “ from 
which to expect freedom of conscience and purity of 
loctrine.” 

“ O, dear sir !” said the landlady, ‘‘ the natural day- 
spring rises in the east, but the spiritual day-spring may 
rise in the north, for what we blinded mortals ken.” 

‘‘ And Burley went to tbe north to seek it ?” replied 
the guest. 

“ Truly ay, sir ; and he saw Claver’se himsell, that 
they ca’ Dundee now.” 

“ What !” exclaimed Morton, in amazement ; “ 1 
would have sworn that meeting would have been the last 
of one of their lives.” 

“ Na, na, sir ; in troubled times, as I understand,” said 
Mrs. Maclure, “ there’s sudden changes — Montgomery, 
and Ferguson, and mony ane mair that were King James’s 
greatest faes, are on his side now — Claver’se spake our 
friend fair, and sent him to consult with Lord Evandale. 
But then there was a break-ofF, for Lord Evandale wadna 
look at, hear, or speak wi’ him ; and now he’s anes wud 
and aye waur, and roars for revenge again Lord Evandale, 
and will hear nought of onything but burn and slay — and 
O thae starts o’ passion ! they unsettle his mind, and gie 
the enemy sair advantages.” 

“ The enemy 9” said Morton, “ What enemy 9” 

“ What enemy ? Are ye acquainted familiarly wi 
John Balfour o’ Burley, and dinna ken that he has had 
sair and frequent combats to sustain against the Evil One ? 
Did ye ever see him alone, but the bible was in his hand, 
and the drawn sword on his knee 9 did ye never sleep in 
the same room wi’ him, and hear him strive in his dreams 
with the delusions of Satan 9 O, ye ken little o’ him, if 
ye have seen him only in fair daylight, for nae man can 
put the face upon his doleful visits and strifes that he can 
do. I bae seen him after sic a strife of a^ony tremble 


DLf) MORTALITY. 


291 


that an infant might hae held him, while the hair on his 
brow was drapping as fast as ever my puir thatched roof 
did in a heavy rain.” 

As she spoke, Morton began to recollect the appear- 
ance of Burley during his sleep in the hay-loft at Miln- 
wood, the report of Cuddie that his senses had become 
impaired, and some whispers current among the Camero- 
nians, who boasted frequently of Burley’s soul-exercises, 
and his strifes with the foul fiend ; which several circum- 
stances led him to conclude that this man himself was a vic- 
tim to those delusions, though his mind, naturally acute 
and forcible, not only disguised his superstition from those 
in whose opinion it might have discredited his judg- 
ment, but by exerting such a force as is said to be proper 
to those afflicted with epilepsy, could postpone the fits 
which it occasioned until he was either freed from super- 
intendence, or surrounded by such as held him more 
highly on account of these visitations. Tt was natural to 
suppose, and could easily be inferred from the narrative 
of Mrs. Maclure, that disappointed ambition, wrecked 
hopes, and the downfall of the party which he had served 
with such desperate fidelity, were likely to aggravate en- 
thusiasm into temporary insanity. It was, indeed, no un- 
common circumstance in those singular times, that men 
like Sir Hariy Vane, Harrison, Overton, and others, 
themselves slaves to the wildest and most enthusiastic 
dreams, could, when mingling with the world, conduct 
themselves not only with good sense in difficulties, and 
courage in dangers, but with the most acute sagacity and 
determined valour. The subsequent part of Mrs. Mac- 
lure’s information, confirmed Morton in these impres- 
sions. 

“ In the grey of the morning,” she said, “ my little 
Peggy sail siiow ye the gate to him before the sodgers 
are up. But ye maun let his hour of danger, as he ca's 
it, be ower, afore ye venture on him in his place of re- 
fuge. Peggy wall tell ye when to venture in. She kens 
his ways weel, for whiles she carries him some little helps 
that he canna do without to sustain life.” 


292 


TALES or MY LANDLORD. 


“ And in what retreat then,” said Morton, “ has thw 
unfortunate person found refuge 

“ An awsome place,” answered the blind woman, “ as 
ever living creature took refuge in. They ca’ it the 
Black Linn of Linklater — it’s a doleful place ; but he 
loves it abune a* others, because he has sae often been 
in safe hiding there ; and it’s my belief he prefers it to a 
tapestried chamber and a down bed. But ye’ll see’t 
I hae seen it mysell mony a day syne. I was a daft 
hempie lassie then, and little thought what was to come 
o’t. Wad ye choose ony thing, sir, ere ye betake yoursell 
to your rest, for ye maun stir wi’ the first dawn of the 
grey light*?” 

“ Nothing more, my good mother,” said Morton, and 
they parted for the evening. 

Morton recommended himself to Heaven, threw him- 
self on the bed, heard, between sleeping and waking, the 
trampling of the dragoon horses at the riders’ return from 
their patrol, and then slept soundly after such painful 
agitation. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

The darksome cave they enter, where they found 
The accursed man low sitting on the ground. 

Musing full sadly in his sullen mind. 

Spenser. 

As the morning began to appear on the mountains, a 
gentle knock was heard at the door of the humble apart- 
ment in which Morton slept, and a girlish treble voice 
asked him from without, “ If he wad please gang to the 
Linn or the folk raise *?” 

He arose upon the invitation, and dressing himself has- 
tily, went forth and joined his little guide. The moun- 
tain maid tript lightly before him, through the grey haze, 
over hill and moor. It was a wild and varied walk, un- 
marked by any regular or distinguishable track, and keep- 


OLD MORTALITY. 


293 


ing upon the whole, the direction of the ascent of the 
brook, though without tracing its windings. The land- 
scape, as they advanced, became waster and more wild, 
until nothing but heath and rock encumbered the side of 
the valley. 

“ Is the place still distant?” said Morton. 

“ Nearly a mile off,” answered the girl. “ We’ll be 
there belive.” 

“ And do you often go this wild journey, my little 
maid 9” 

“ When grannie sends me wi’ milk and meal to the 
Linn,” answered the child. 

“ And are you not afraid to travel so wild a road 
alone .^” 

“ Hout na, sir,” replied the guide ; “ na living crea- 
ture wad touch sic a bit thing as I am, and grannie says 
we need never fear ony thing else when we are doing a 
gude turn.” 

“ Strong in innocence as in triple mail !” said Morton 
to himself, and followed her steps in silence. 

They soon came to a decayed thicket, where bram- 
bles and thorns supplied the room of the oak and birches 
of which it had once consisted. Here the guide turned 
short off the open heath, and by a sheep-track, conducted 
Morton to the brook. A hoarse and sullen roar had in 
part prepared him for the scene which presented itself, 
yet it was not to be viewed without surprise and even 
terror. When he emerged from the devious path which 
conducted him through the thicket, he found himself plac- 
ed on a ledge of flat rock, projecting over one side of a 
chasm not less than a hundred feet deep, where the dark 
mountain-stream made a decided and rapid shoot over 
the precipice, and was swallowed up by a deep, black, 
yawning gulph. The eye in vain strove to see the bottom 
of the fall ; it could catch but one sheet of foaming uproar 
and sheer descent, until the view was obstructed by the 
projecting crags, which inclosed the bottom of the water- 
fall, and hid from sight the dark pool which received its 
25 * VOL. II. 


294 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


tortured waters ; far beneath, at the distance of perhaps 
a quarter of a mile, the eye caught the winding of the 
stream as it emerged into a more open course. But for 
that distance, they were lost to sight as much as if a cav- 
ern had been arched over them ; and indeed the steep 
and projecting ledges of rock, through which they wound 
their way in darkness, were very nearly closing and over- 
roohng their course. 

While Morton gazed at this scene of tumult, which 
seemed, by the surrounding thickets and the clefts into 
which the waters descended, to seek to hide itself from 
every eye, his little attendant, as she stood beside him 
on the platform of rock which commanded the best view 
of the fall, pulled him by the sleeve, and said in a tone 
which he could not hear without stooping his ear near 
the speaker, “ Hear till him ! Eh ! hear till him !” 

Morton listened more attentively, and out of the very 
abyss into which the brook fell, and amidst the tumultua- 
ry sounds of the cataract, thought he could distinguish 
shouts, screams, and even articulate words, as if the tor- 
tured demon of the stream had been mingling his com- 
plaints with the roar of his broken waters. 

“ This is the way,” said the little girl ; follow me gin 
ye please, sir, but tak tent to your feet and, with the 
daring agility which custom had rendered easy, she van- 
ished from the platform on which she stood, and by 
notches and slight projections in the rock, scrambled 
down its face into the chasm which it overhung. Steady, 
bold, and active, Morton hesitated not to follow her ; but 
the necessary attention to secure his hold and footing in 
a descent where both foot and hand were needful for 
security, prevented him from looking around him, till, 
having descended nigh twenty feet, and being sixty or 
seventy above the pool which received the fall, his guide 
made a pause, and he again found himself by her side 
in a situation that appeared equally romantic and precari- 
ous. They were nearly opposite to the waterfall, and in 
point of level situated at about one-quarter’s depth from 
the point of the cliff over which it thundered, and three- 


OLD MORTALITY. 


295 


fourths of the height above the dark, deep, and restless 
pool which received its fall. Both these tremendous 
points, the first shoot, namely, of the yet unbroken stream, 
and the deep and sombre abyss into which it was empti- 
ed were full before him, as well as the whole continuous 
stream of billowy froth, which dashing from the one, was 
eddying and boiling in the other. They were so near 
this grand phenomenon that they were covered with its 
pray, and well nigh deafened by the incessant roar. 
But crossing in the very front of the fall, and at scarce 
three yards distance from the cataract, an old oak-tree, 
flung across the chasm in a manner that seemed acci- 
dental, formed a bridge of fearfully narrow dimensions 
and uncertain footing. The upper end of the tree rested 
on the platform on which they stood — the lower or up- 
rooted extremity extended behind a projection on the 
o{)posite side, and was secured, Morton’s eye could not 
discover where. From behind the same projection glim- 
mered a strong red light, which glancing in the waves 
of the falling water, and tinging them partially with crim- 
son, had a strange preternatural and sinister effect when 
contrasted with the beams of the rising sun, which glanc- 
ed on the first broken waves of the fall, though even its 
meridian splendour could not gain the third of its full 
depth. When he had looked around him for a moment, 
the girl again pulled his sleeve, and pointing to the oak 
and the projecting point beyond it, (for hearing speech 
was now out of the question,) indicated that there lay 
his farther passage. 

Morton gazed at her with surprise ; for, although he 
well knew that the persecuted Presbyterians had in the 
preceding reigns sought refuge among dells and thickets, 
caves and cataracts, — in spots the most extraordinary 
and secluded — although he had heard of the champions 
of the Covenant, who had long abidden beside Dobs-linn 
on the wild heights of Polmoodie, and others who had 
been concealed in the yet more terrific cavern called 
Creehope-linn, in the parish of Closeburnf^et his imagi- 
nation had never exactly figured out the horrors of such 


296 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


a residence, and he was surprised how the strange and 
romantic scene which he now saw had remained con- 
cealed from him, while a curious investigator of such natu- 
ral phenomena. But he readily conceived, that, lying 
in a remote and wild district, and being destined as a 
place of concealment to the persecuted preachers and 
professors of non-conformity, the secret of its existence 
was carefully preserved by the few shepherds to whom 
it might be known. 

As, breaking from these meditations, he began to 
consider how he should traverse the doubtful and terrific 
bridge, which, skirted by the cascade, and rendered wet 
and slippery by its constant drizzle, traversed the chasm 
above sixty feet from the bottom of the fall, his guide, as 
if to give him courage, tript over and back without the 
least hesitation. Envying for a moment the little bare 
feet which caught a safer hold of the rugged side of the 
oak than he could pretend to with his heavy boots, iMor- 
ton nevertheless resolved to attempt the passage, and, 
fixing his eye firm on a stationary object on the other 
side, without allowing his head to become giddy, or his 
attention to be distracted by the flash, the foam, and the 
roar of the waters around him, he strode steadily and 
safely along the uncertain bridge, and reached the mouth 
of a small cavern on the farther side of the torrent. 
Here he paused ; for a light, proceeding from a fire of 
red-hot charcoal, permitted him to see the interior of the 
cave, and enabled him to contemplate the appearance of 
its inhabitant, by whom he himself could not be so readi- 
ly distinguished, being concealed by the shadow of the 
rock. What he observed would by no means have en- 
couraged a less determined man to proceed with the task 
which he had undertaken. 

Burley, only altered from what he had been formerly 
by the addition of a grizzly beard, stood in the midst of 
the cave, with his clasped Bible in one hand and his drawn 
sword in the other. His figure, dimly ruddied by the 
light of the red charcoal, seemed that of a fiend in the 
lurid atmosphere of Pandemonium, and his gestures and 


OLD MORTALITY. 


297 


words, as far as they could be heard, seemed equally 
violent and irregular. All alone, and in a place of almost 
unapproachable seclusion, his demeanour was that of a 
man who strives for life and death with a mortal enemy. 
“ Ha ! ha ! — there — there !” he exclaimed, accompany- 
ing each word with a thrust, urged with his whole force 
against the impassable and empty air — “ Did I not tell 
thee so 9 — 1 have resisted, and thou fleest from me ! — 
Coward as thou art — come in all thy terrors — come with 
mine own evil deeds, which render thee most terrible of 
all — there is enough betwixt the boards of this book to 
rescue me ! — What mutterest thou of grey hairs — It 
was well done to slay him — the more ripe the corn the 
readier for the sickle. — Art gone — art gone 9 — I have 
ever known thee but a coward — ha I ha ! ha !” 

With these wild exclamations he sunk the point of his 
sword, and remained standing still in the same posture 
like a maniac whose fit is over. 

“ The dangerous time is by now,*' said the little girl 
who had followed ; “ it seldom lasts beyond the time that 
the sun’s ower the hill ; ye may gang in and speak wi’ 
him now. I’ll wait for you at the other side of the linn ; 
he canna bide to see iwa folk at anes.” 

Slowly and cautiously, and keeping constantly upon his 
guard, Morton presented himself to the view of his old 
associate in command. 

“ What ! comest thou again when thine hour is over ?” 
was his first exclamation ; and flourishing his sword aloft, 
his countenance assumed an expression in which ghastly 
terror seemed mingled with the rage of a demoniac. 

“ I am come, Mr. Balfour,” said Morton, in a steady 
and composed tone, “ to renew an acquaintance which 
has been broken off since the fight of Bothwell Bridge.” 

As soon as Burley became aware that Morton was be- 
fore him in person, — an idea which he caught with mar- 
vellous celerity, — he at once exerted that mastership over 
his heated and enthusiastic imagination, the power o/ 
enforcing which was a most striking part of his extraor- 
vlinary character. He sunk his sword-point at once, and 


298 


TAXES or MY XANDLORD. 


as he stole it composedly into the scabbard, he muttered 
something of the damp and cold which sent an old sol- 
dier to his fencing exercise, to prevent his blood from 
chilling. This done, he proceeded in the cold determin- 
ed manner which was peculiar to his ordinary discourse. 

“ Thou hast tarried long, Henry Morton, and hast not 
come to the vintage before the twelfth hour has struck. 
Art thou yet willing to take the right hand of fellowship, 
and be one with those who look not to thrones or dy- 
nasties, but to the rule of Scripture for their directions 

“ I am surprised,” said Morton, evading the direct 
answer to his question, “ that you should have known me 
after so many years.” 

“ The features of those who ought to act with me are 
engraved on my heart,” answered Burley ; “ and few 
but Silas Morton’s son durst have followed me into this 
my castle of retreat. Seest thou that draw-bridge of 
Nature’s own construction he added, pointing to the 
prostrate oak-tree — “ one spurn of my foot, and it is 
overwhelmed in the abyss below, bidding foemen on the 
farther side stand at defiance, and leaving enemies on this 
at the mercy of one who never yet met his equal in sin- 
gle fight.” 

“ Of such defences,” said Morton, “ I should have 
thought you would now have had little need.” 

‘‘ Little need said Burley impatiently, — “ What 
little need, when incarnate fiends are combined against 
me on earth, and Sathan himself — but it matters not,” 
added he, checking himself — “ Enough that I like my 
place of refuge — my cave of Adullam, and would not 
change its rude ribs of limestone rock for the fair chain 
bers of the castle of the Earls of Torwood, with their 
broad bounds and barony. Thou, unless the foolish 
fever-fit be over, may’st think differently.” 

“ It was of those very possessions 1 came to speak,” 
said Morton, “ and I doubt not to find Mr. Balfour the 
same rational and reflecting person which I knew him to 
be in times when zeal disunited brethren.” 


OLD MORTALITY. 


290 


“ Ay?” said Burley ; “ Indeed ? — Is such truly your 
hope 9 — wilt thou express it more plainly 

‘‘ In a word then,” said Morton, “ you have exercis- 
ed, by means at which I can guess, a secret, but most 
prejudicial influence over the fortunes of Lady Margaret 
Bellenden and her grand-daughter, and in favour of that 
base, oppressive apostate, Basil Olifant, whom the law, 
deceived by thy operations, has placed in possession of 
their lawful property.” 

“ Sayest thou said Balfour. 

“ 1 do say so,” replied Morton ; “ and face to face 
you will not deny what you have vouched by your hand- 
writing.” 

“ And suppose I deny it not said Balfour, “ and 
suppose that thy eloquence were found equal to persuade 
me to retrace the steps I have taken on matured resolve, 
what will be thy meed ? Dost thou still hope to possess 
the fair-haired girl, with her wide and rich inheritance 

“ I have no such hope,” answered Morton calmly. 

“ And for whom, then, hast thou ventured to do this 
great thing, to seek to rend the prey from the valiant, to 
bring forth food from the den of the lion, and to extract 
sweetness from the maw of the devourer.? — For whose 
sake hast thou undertaken to read this riddle, more hard 
than Samson’s.^” 

“ For Lord Evandale’s and that of his bride,” replied 
Morton firmly. ‘‘ Think better of mankind, Mr. Balfour, 
and believe there are some who are willing to sacrifice 
their happiness to that of others.” 

“ Then, as my soul liveth,” replied Balfour, “ thou 
art, to wear beard, and back a horse, and draw a sword, 
the tamest and most gall-less puppet that ever sustained 
injury unavenged. What ! thou wouldst help that ac- 
cursed Evandale to the arms of the woman that thou lov- 
est ?- -thou wouldst endow them with wealth and with 
heritages, and thou think’st that there lives another man, 
offended even more deeply than thou, yet equally cold- 
livered and mean-spirited, crawling upon the face of the 


30f\ 


TAI.ES OF MY LANDLORD. 


earth, and hast dared to suppose that one other to be 
John Balfour 9” 

“ For my own feelings,” said Morton composedly, 
‘ I am answerable to none but Heaven — To you, Mr. 
Balfour, I should suppose it of little consequence whether 
Basil Olifant or Lord Evandalc possess these estates.” 

“ Thou art deceived,” said Burley ; “ both are indeed 
in outer darkness, and strangers to the light, as he whose 
eyes have never been opened to the day. But this Basil 
Olifant is a Nahal — a Demas — a base churl, whose wealth 
and power are at the disposal of him who can threaten to 
deprive him of them. He became a professor because 
he was deprived of these lands of Tillietudlem — he 
turned a papist to obtain possession of them — he called 
himself an Erastian, that he might not again lose them, 
and he will become what 1 list while I have in my power 
the document that may deprive him of them. These 
lands are a bit between his jaws and a hook in his nos- 
trils, and the rein and the line are in my hands to guide 
them as 1 think meet ; and his they shall therefore be, 
unless I had assurance of bestowing them on a sure and 
sincere friend. But Lord Evandale is a malignant, of 
heart like flint, and brow like adamant ; the goods of the 
world fall on him like leaves on the frost-bound earth, and 
unmoved he will see them whirled off by the first wind. 
The heathen virtues of such as he are more dangerous 
to us than the sordid cupidity of those, who, governed by 
their interest, must follow where it leads, and who, there- 
fore, themselves the slaves of avarice, may be compelled 
10 work in the vineyard, were it but to earn the wages of 
sin.” 

“ This might have been all well some years since,” 
replied Morton ; “ and I could understand your argu- 
ment, although I could never acquiesce in its justice. 
But at this crisis it seems useless to you to persevere in 
keeping up an influence which can no longer be directed 
to an useful purpose. The land has peace, liberty, and 
freedom of conscience — and what would you more ?” 


OLD MORTALITY. 


301 


‘‘ More !” exclaimed Burley, again unsheathing his 
sword, with a vivacity which nearly made Morton start ; 
“ look at the notches upon that weapon ; they are three 
in number, are they not*?” 

“ It seems so,” answered Morton ; “ but what of 
that 9” 

‘‘ The fragment of steel that parted from this first gap, 
rested on the skull of the perjured traitor, who first in- 
troduced Episcopacy into Scotland ; — this second notch 
was made in the rib-bone of an impious villain, the bold- 
est and best soldier that upheld the prelatic cause at 
Drumclog ; — this third was broken on the steel head- 
piece of the captain who defended the Chapel of Holy- 
rood when the people rose at the Revolution. I cleft 
him to the teeth through steel and bone. It has done 
great deeds this little weapon, and each of these blows 
was a deliverance to the church. This sword,” he said, 
again sheathing it, “ has yet more to do — to weed out 
this base and pestilential heresy of Erastianism — to vin- 
dicate the true liberty of the Kirk in her purity — to re- 
store the Covenant in its glory, — then let it moulder and 
rust beside the bones of its master.”^^ 

“ You have neither men nor means, Mr. Balfour, to 
disturb the government as now settled,” argued Morton ; 

the people are in general satisfied, excepting only the 
gentlemen of the Jacobite interest ; and surely you would 
nut join with those who would only use you for their own 
piirj)oses?” 

“ It is they,” answered Burley, “ that should serve 
ours. I went to the camp of the malignant Claver’se, as 
the future King of Israel sought the land of the Philis- 
tines;! arranged with him a rising, and, but for the villain 
Evandale, the Erastians ere now had been driven from 
the west — I could slay him,” he added, with a vindictive 
scowl, “ were he grasping the horns of the altar !” He 
tlien proceeded in a calmer tone : “ If thou, son of 

mine ancient comrade, werl suitor for thyself to this 
Edith Bellenden, and wert willing to put thy hand to the 
20 von. 11 . 


303 


TALES OF MY LAM)1.0I?n. 


great work with zeal equal to thy courage, think not I 
would prefer the friendship of Basil Olifant to thine ; 
thou shouldst then have the means that this document 
(he produced a parchment) affords, to place her in pos- 
session of the lands of her fathers. This have I longed 
to say to thee ever since I saw thee fight the good fight 
so strongly at the fatal Bridge. The maiden loved thee, 
and thou her.” 

Morton replied firmly, “ I will not dissemble with you, 
Mr. Balfour, even to gain a good end. I came in hopes 
to persuade you to do a deed of justice to others, not to 
gain any selfish end of my own. I have failed — I grieve 
for your sake, more than for the loss which others will 
sustain by your injustice.” 

“ You refuse my proffer, then 9” said Burley, with 
kindling eyes. 

“ 1 do,” said Morton. “Would you be really, as you 
are desirous to be thought, a man of honour and con- 
science, you would, regardless of all other considerations, 
restore that parchment to Lord Evandale,to be used for 
the advantage of the lawful heir.” 

. “ Sooner shall it perish !” said Balfour ; and, casting 
the deed into the heap of red charcoal beside him, pressed 
It down with the heel of his boot. 

While it smoked, shrivelled, and crackled in the flames, 
Morton sprung forward to snatch it, and Burley catching 
hold of him, a struggle ensued. Both were strong men, 
but although Morton was much the more active and 
younger of the two, yet Balfour was the most powerful, 
and effectually prevented him from rescuing the deed un- 
til it was fairly reduced to a cinder. They then quitted 
hold of each other, and the enthusiast, rendered fiercer 
by the contest, glared on Morton with an eye expressive 
of frantic revenge. 

“ Thou hast my secret,” he exclaimed ; “ thou must 
be mine, or die ?” 

“ I contemn your threats,” said Morton ; “ I pity you, 
and leave you.” 

But, as he turned to retire, Burley stept before him, 
pushed the oak-trunk from its resting place, and, as it fell 


OLD MORTALITY. 


303 


thundering and crashing into the abyss beneath, drew his 
sword, and cried out, with a voice that rivalled the roar 
of the cataract and the thunder of the falling oak, — 
“ Now thou art at bay ! — fight — yield, or die !” and 
standing in the mouth of the cavern, he flourished his 
naked sword. 

“ 1 will not fight with the man that preserved my 
father’s life,” said Morton ; — “ 1 have not yet learned to 
say the words, I yield ; and my life I will rescue as I 
best can.” 

So speaking, and ere Balfour was aware of his pur- 
pose, he sprung past him, and exerting that youthful agil- 
ity of which he possessed an uncommon share, leaped 
clear across the fearful chasm which divided the mouth 
of the cave from the projecting rock on the opposite side, 
and stood there safe and free from his incensed enemy. 
He immediately ascended the ravine, and, as he turned, 
saw Burley stand for an instant aghast with astonishment, 
and then, with the frenzy of disappointed rage, rush into 
the interior of his cavern. 

It was not difficult for him to perceive that this unhap- 
py man’s mind had been so long agitated by desperate 
schemes and sudden disappointments, that it had lost its 
equipoize, and that there was now in his conduct a shade 
of lunacy, not the less striking from the vigour and craft 
with which he pursued his wild designs. Morton soon 
joined his guide, who had been terrified by the fall of the 
oak. This he represented as accidental ; and she assur- 
ed him in return, that the inhabitant of the cave would 
experience no inconvenience from it, being always pro- 
vided with materials to construct another bridge. 

The adventures of the morning were not yet ended 
As they approached the hut, the little girl made an ex 
clamation of surprise at seeing her grandmother groping 
her way towards them, at a greater distance from her 
home than she could have been supposed capable oi 
travelling. 

“ O, sir, sir !” said the old woman, when she heard 
them approach, “ gin e’er ve loved Lord Evandale, help 


304 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


now or never ! — God be praised that left my hearing 
when he look my poor eye-sight ! — Come this way — this 
way — And O ! tread lightly. — Peggy, hinny, gang saddle 
ihe gentleman’s horse, and lead him cannily ahint the 
thorny shaw, and bide him there.” 

She conducted him to a small window, through which, 
himself unobserved, he could see two dragoons seated at 
their morning draught of ale, and conversing earnestly 
together. 

“ The more I think of it,” said the one, “ the less 1 
like it, Inglis ; Evandale was a good officer, and the sol- 
dier’s friend ; and though we were punished for the 

mutiny at Tillietudlem, yet, by , Frank, you must 

own we deserved it.” 

“ D n seize me, if I forgive him for it, though!” 

replied the other ; “ and 1 think 1 can sit in his skirts 
now.” 

“ Why, man, you should forget and forgive — Better 
take the start with him along with the rest, and join the 
ranting Highlanders. We have all eat King James’s 
bread.” 

“ Thou art an ass ; the start, as you call it, will never 
happen ; the day’s put off. Halliday’s seen a ghost, or 
Miss Bellenden’s fallen sick of the pip, or some blasted 
nonsense or another ; the thing will never keep two days 
longer, and the first bird that sings out will get the reward.” 

“ That’s true, too,” answered his comrade ; “ and will 
this fellow — this Basil Olifant, pay handsomely 

“ Like a prince, man,” said Inglis^ “ Evandale is the 
man on earth whom he hates worst, and he fears him be- 
sides about some law business, and were he once rubbed 
out of the way, all, he thinks, will be his own.” 

“ But shall we have warrants and force enough said 
the other fellow. « Few people here will stir against my 
lord, and we may find him with some of our own fellows 
at his back.” 

“ Thou’rt a cowardly fool, Dick,” returned Inglis ; 

he is living quietly down at Fairy-knowe to avoid sus- 
picion. Olifant is a magistrate, and will have some of 
bis own people that he can trust along with him. There 


OJLD MORTALITY 


305 


are us two, and the Laird says he can get a desperate 
fighting whig fellow, called Quintin Mackell, that has an 
old grudge at Evandale.” 

“Well, well, you are my officer, you know,” said the 
private, with true military conscience, “ and if anything 
is wrong” 

“ Pll take the blame,” said Inglis. “ Come, another 
pot of ale, and let us to Tillietudlem. — Here, blind Bess ! 
why, where the devil has the old hag crept to ?” 

“ Delay them as long as you can,” whispered Morton, 
as he thrust his purse into the hostess’s hand ; “ all de- 
pends on gaining time.” 

Then, walking swiftly to the place where the girl held 
his horse ready, “ To Fairy-knowe 9 — no; alone I could 
not protect them. — I must instantly to Glasgow. Witten- 
bold, the commandant there, will readily give me the 
support of a troop, and procure me the countenance of 
the civil power. I must drop a caution as I pass. Come, 
Moorkopf,” he said, addressing his horse as he mounted 
him, — “ this day must try your breath and speed.” 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

Yet could he not his closing eyes withdraw, 

Though less and less of Emily he saw ; 

So, speechless for a little space he lay, 

Then grasp’d the hand he held, and sigh’d his soul away. 

Palanum and Arcite. 


The indisposition of Edith confined her to bed during 
the eventful day on which she had received such an unex- 
pected shock from the sudden apparition of Morton. 
Next morning, however, she was reported to be so much 
better, that Lord Evandale resumed his purpose of leav- 
ng Fairy-knowe. At a late hour in the forenoon, Lady 
Emily entered the apartment of Edith with a peculiar 
gravity of manner. Having received and paid the com- 
26 * VOL. II. 


306 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


pliments of the day, she observed it would be a sad one 
for her, though it would relieve Miss Bellenden of an in- 
cumbrance. — “ My brother leaves us to-day, Miss Bel- 
lenden.” 

“ Leaves us !” exclaimed Edith in surprise ; ‘‘ for his 
own house, I trust ?” 

“ I have reason to think he meditates a more distant 
^ourney,” answered Lady Emily ; “ he has little to detain 
him in this country.” 

“ Good Heaven !” exclaimed Edith, “ why was 1 
born to become the wreck of all that is manly and noble ! 
What can be done to stop him from running headlong on 
ruin 9 I will come down instantly — Say that I implore 
he will not depart until 1 speak with him.” 

“ It will be in vain. Miss Bellenden ; but I will exe- 
cute your commission ;” and she left the room as formal- 
ly as she had entered it, and informed her brother. Miss 
Bellenden was so much recovered as to propose coming 
down stairs ere he went away. 

“ I suppose,” she added pettishly, “ the prospect of 
being speedily released from our company has wrought a 
cure on her shattered nerves.” 

“ Sister,” said Lord Evandale, “ you are unjust, if 
not envious.” 

“ Unjust I may be, Evandale, but I should not have 
dreamt,” glancing her eye at a mirror, “ of being thought 
envious without better cause — But let us go to the old 
lady ; she is making a feast in the other room, which 
might have dined all your troop when you had one.” 

Lord Evandale accompanied her in silence to the par- 
lour, for he knew it was in vain to contend with her pre- 
possessions and offended pride. They found the table 
covered with refreshments arranged under the careful in- 
spection of Lady Margaret. 

“ Ye could hardly weel be said to breakfast this morn- 
ing, my Lord Evandale, and ye maun e’en partake of a 
small collation before ye ride, such as this poor house, 
whose inmates are so much indebted to you, can provide 
in their present circumstances. For my ain part, I like 
to see young folk take some refection before they ride 


OLD MORTALITY. 


307 


out upon their sports or their affairs, and 1 said as much 
to his most Sacred Majesty when he breakfasted at Tillie- 
tudlern in the year of grace sixteen hundred and fifty-one, 
and his most Sacred Majesty was pleased to reply, drink- 
ing to my health at the same time in a flagon of Rhenish 
wine, “ Lady Margaret, ye speak like a Highland oracle.” 
These were his Majesty’s very words ; so that your lord- 
ship may judge whether I have not good authority to press 
young folk to partake of their vivers.” 

It may be well supposed that much of the good lady’s 
speech failed Lord Evandale’s ears, which were then 
employed in listening for the light step of Edith. His 
absence of mind on this occasion, however natural, cost 
him very dear. While Lady Margaret was playing the 
kind hostess, a part she delighted and excelled in, she 
was interrupted by John Gudyill, who, in the natural 
phrase for announcing an inferior to the mistress of a 
family, said, “ There was ane wanting to speak to her 
leddyship.” 

“ Ane ! what ane 7 Has he nae name ^ Ye speak 
as if I kept a shop, and was to come at every body’s 
whistle.” 

“ Yes, he has a name,” answered John, “ but your 
leddyship likes ill to hear’t.” 

“ What is it, you fool*?” 

“ It’s Calf-Gibbie, my leddy,” said John, in a tone 
rather above the pitch of decorous respect, on which he 
occasionally trespassed, confiding in his merit as an ancient 
servant of the family, and a faithful follower of their hum- 
ble fortunes — “ It’s Calf-Gibbie, an your leddyship will 
hae’t, that keeps Edie Henshaw’s kye down yonder at 
the Brigg-end — that’s him that was Guse-Gibbie atTillie- 
tudlem, and gaed to the wappinshaw, and that” 

“ Hold your peace, John,” said the old lady, rising in 
dignity ; “ you are very insolent to think I wad speak wi' 
a person like that. Let him tell his business to you or 
Mrs. Headrigg.” 

“ He’ll no hear o’ that, my leddy ; he says, them that 
sent him bade him gie the thing to your leddyship’s ain 
hand direct, or to Lord Evandale’s, he wots na whilk. 


308 


TALES OF MT LANDLORD. 


But to say the truth, he’s far frae fresh, and he’s but an 
idiot an he were.” 

“ Then turn him out,” said Lady Margaret, ‘‘ and tell 
him to come back to-morrow when he is sober. I sup- 
pose he comes to crave some benevolence, as an ancient 
follower o’ the house.” 

“ Like eneugh, my leddy, for he’s a’ in rags, poor crea- 
ture.” 

Gudyill made another attempt to get at Gibbie’s com- 
mission, which was indeed of the last importance, being 
a few lines froni Morton to Lord Evandale, acquainting 
him with the danger in which he stood from the practices 
of Olifant, and exhorting him either to instant flight, or 
else to come to Glasgow and surrender himself, .where 
he could assure him of protection. This billet, hastily 
written, he intrusted to Gibbie, whom he saw feeding 
his herd beside the bridge, and backed with a couple of 
dollars his desire that it might instantly be delivered into 
the hand to which it was addressed. 

But it was decreed that Goose-Gibbie’s intermediation, 
whether as an emissary or as a man-at-arms, should be 
unfortunate to the family of Tillietudlem. He unluckily 
tarried so long at the ale-house, to prove if his employer’s 
coin was good, that when he appeared at Fairy-knowe, 
the little sense which nature had given him was effectually 
drowned in ale and brandy, and instead of asking for 
Lord Evandale, he demanded to speak with Lady Mar- 
garet, whose name was more familiar to his ear. Being 
refused admittance to her presence, he staggered away 
witli the letter undelivered, perversely faithful to Morton’s 
instructions in the only point in which it would have been 
well had he departed from them. 

A few minutes after he was gone, Edith entered the 
apartment. Lord Evandale and she met with mutual 
embarrassment, which Lady Margaret, who only knew in 
general that their union had been postponed by her grand- 
daughter’s indisposition, set down to the bashfulness of a 
bride and bridegroom, and, to place them at ease, began 
to talk to Lady Emily on indifferent topics. -At this mo- 


OLD MORTALITY. 


309 


merit Edith, with a countenance as pale as death, mutter- 
ed, rather than whispered, to Lord Evandale, a request 
to speak with him. He offered his arm, and supported 
her into the small anteroom, which, as we have noticed 
before, opened from the parlour. He placed her in a 
chair, and, taking one himself, awaited .the opening of 
the conversation. 

“ I arn distressed, my lord,” were the first words she was 
able to articulate, and those with difficulty ; “ I scarce 
know what 1 would say, nor how to speak it.” 

“ If I have any share in occasioning your uneasiness,” 
said Lord Evandale mildly, “ you will soon, Edith, be 
released from it.” 

“ You are determined then, my lord,” she replied, 
“ to run .this desperate course with desperate men, in 
spite of your own better reason — in spite of your friends 
entreaties — in spite of the almost inevitable ruin which 
yawns before you ?” 

“ Forgive me. Miss Bellenden j even your solicitude 
on my account must not detain me when my honour calls. 
My horses stand ready saddled, my servants are prepar- 
ed, the signal for rising will be given so soon as 1 reach 
Kilsythe — If it is my fate that calls me, I will not shun 
meeting it. It will be something,” he said, taking her 
hand, “ to die deserving your compassion, since I cannot 
gain your love.” 

“ O, my lord, remain!” said Edith, in a tone which 
went to his heart ; “ time may explain the strange cir- 
cumstance which has shocked me so much ; my agitated 
nerves may recover their tranquillity. O do not rush 
on death and ruin ! remain to be our prop and stay, 
and hope every thing from time !” 

It is too late, Edith,” answered Lord Evandale; “ and 
i were most ungenerous could 1 pi actise on the warmth and 
kindliness of your feelings towards me. I know you cannot 
love me ; nervous distress, so strong as to conjure up the 
appearance of the dead or absent, indicates a predilection 
too powerful to give way to friendship and gratitude alone 
But were it otherwise, the die is now cast.” 


310 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


As he spoke thus, Cuddle burst into the room, terror 
and haste in his countenance. “ O, my lord, hide your- 
sell ! they hae beset the outlets o’ the house,” was his 
first exclamation. 

“ They 9 who *?” said Lord Evandale. 

‘‘ A party of horse, headed by Basil Olifant,” answered 
Cuddie. 

“ O, hide yourself, my lord !” echoed Edith, in an 
agony of terror. 

“ I will not, by Heaven !” answered Lord Evandale. 
“ What right has the villain to assail me, or stop my pas- 
sage I will make my way were he backed by a regi- 
ment ; tell Halliday and Hunter to get out the horses — 
And now, farewell, Edith!” He clasped her in his arms, 
and kissed her tenderly ; then, bursting from his sister, 
who, with Lady Margaret, endeavoured to detain him, 
rushed out and mounted his horse. 

All was in confusion — the women shrieked and hurri- 
ed in consternation to the front windows of the house, 
from which they could see a small party of horsemen, 
of whom two only seemed soldiers. They were on the 
open ground before Cuddle’s cottage, at the bottom of 
the descent from the house, and showed caution in ap- 
proaching it, as if uncertain of the strength within. 

“ He may escape, he may escape!” said Edith ; “ O, 
would he but take the by-road !” 

But Lord Evandale, determined to face a danger 
which his high spirit undervalued, commanded his ser- 
vants to follow him, and rode composedly down the ave- 
nue. Old Gudyill ran to arm himself, and Cuddie snatch- 
ed down a gun which was kept for the protection of the 
house, and, although on foot, followed Lord Evandale. 
It was in vain his wife, who had hurried up on the alarm, 
hung by his skirts, threatening him with death by the 
sword or halter for meddling with .other folk’s matters. 

“ Hand you peace, ye b ,” said Cuddie, “ and 

that’s braid Scotch, or I wotna what is ; is it ither folk’s 
matters to see Lord Evandale murdered before my face 
and down the avenue he marched But considering on 


OLD ]M011TAI-ITY. 


311 


the way that he composed the whole infantry, as Johr 
Gudyill had not appeared, he took his vantage ground 
behind the hedge, hammered his flint, cocked his piece, 
and, taking a long aim at Laird Basil, as he was called, 
stood prompt for action. 

As soon as Lord Evandale appeared, Olifant’s party 
spread themselves a little, as if preparing to enclose him. 
Their leader stood fast, supported by three men, two ot 
whom were dragoons, the third in dress and appearance 
a countryman, all well armed. But the strong figure, 
stern features, and resolved manner of the third attend- 
ant, made him seem the most formidable of the party : 
and whoever had before seen him could have no difficulty 
in recognizing Balfour of Burley. 

“ Follow' me,” said Lord Evandale to his servants, 
“ and if we are forcibly opposed, do as I do.” He ad- 
vanced at a hand gallop tow'ards Olifant, and w^as in the act 
of demanding why lie had thus beset the road, when Oli- 
fant called out, “ Slioot the traitor !” and the whole four 
fired tlieir carabines upon the unfortunate nobleman. 
He reeled in the saddle, advanced his hand to the holster, 
and drew a pistol, but, unable to discharge it, fell from 
his horse mortally wounded. His servants had presented 
their carabines. Hunter fired at random ; but Halliday, 
who was an intrepid fellow, took aim at Inglis, and shot 
him dead on the spot. At the same instant a shot, from 
behind the hedge, still more effectually avenged Lord 
Evandale, for the ball took place in the very midst ot 
Basil Olifant’s forehead, and stretched him lifeless on 
the ground. His followers, astonished at the execution 
done in so short a time, seemed rather disposed to stand 
inactive, when Burley, whose blood was up with the con- 
test, exclaimed, “ Down with the Midianites !” and attack- 
ed Halliday sword in hand. At this instant the clatter 
of horses’ hoofs was heard, and a party of horse, rapidly 
advancing on the road from Glasgow, appeared on the 
fatal field. They were foreign dragoons, led by the 
Dutch commandant, Wittenbold, accompanied by Morton 
and a civil magistrate. 


312 


TALES OF MY LAJfDLORD. 


A hasty call to surrender, in the name of God and 
King William, was obeyed by all except Burley, who 
turned bis horse and attempted to escape. Several sol- 
diers pursued him by command of their officer, but, be- 
ing well mounted, only the two headmost seemed likely 
to gain on him. He turned deliberately twice, and dis- 
charging first one of his pistols, and then the other, rid 
himself of the one pursuer by mortally wounding him, and 
of the other by shooting his horse, and then continued 
his flight to Bothwell Bridge, where, for his misfortune, 
he found the gates shut and guarded. Turning from 
thence, he made for a place where the river seemed 
passable, and plunged into the stream, the bullets from 
the pistols and carabines of his pursuers whizzing around 
him. Two balls took effect when he was past the middle 
of the stream, and he felt himself dangerously wounded. 
He reined his horse round in the midst of the river, and 
returned towards the bank he had left, waving his hand, 
as if with the purpose of intimating that he surrendered. 
The troopers ceased firing at him accordingly, and await- 
ed his return, two of them riding a little way into the 
river to seize and disarm him. But it presently appear- 
ed that his purpose was revenge, not safety. As he ap- 
proached the two soldiers, he collected his remaining 
strength, and discharged a blow on the head of one, 
which tumbled him from his horse. The other dragoon, 
a strong muscular man, had in the meanwhile laid hands 
on him. Burley, in requital, grasped his throat, as a 
dying tiger seizes his prey, and both losing the saddle in 
the struggle, came headlong into the river, and were 
swept down the stream. Their course might be traced 
by the blood which bubbled up to the surface. They 
were twice seen to rise, the Dutchman striving to swim, 
and Burley clinging to him in a manner that showed his 
desire that both should perish. Their corpses were 
taken out about a quarter of a mile down the river 
As Balfour’s grasp could not have been unclenched with- 


OLD MOT1TA1.it Y. 


313 


out cutting off his hands, both were thrown into a hasty 
grave, still marked by a rude stone, and a ruder epitaph.* 
While the soul of this stern enUiusiast dWted to its ac- 
count, that of the brave and generous Lord Evandale 
was also released. Morton had flung himself from his 
horse upon perceiving his situation, to render his dying 
friend all the aid in his power. He knew him, for he 
pressed his hand, and, being unable to speak, intimated 
by signs his wish to be conveyed to the house. This was 
done with all the care possible, and he was soon surround- 
ed by his lamenting friends. But the clamorous grief 
of Lady Emily was far exceeded in intensity by the si- 
lent agony of Edith. Unconscious even of the presence 
of Morton, she hung over the dying man ; nor was she 
aware that fate, who was removing one faithful lover, had 
restored another as if from the grave, until Lord Evan- 
dale, taking their hands in his, pressed them both affec- 
tionately, united them together, raised his face, as if to 
pray for a blessing on them, and sunk back and expired 
in the next moment. 


* Gentle reader, I did request of mine honest friend, Peter Proudfoot, trav- 
elling merchant, known to many of tliis land for his faithful and just dealings, 
as well in muslins and cambrics as in small wares, to procure me, on his next 
peregrinations to that vicinage, a copy of the Epitaphion alluded to. And ac 
cording to his report, whicli 1 see no ground to discredit, it runneth thus i 

Here lyc.s ane saint to prolate surly, 

Heing John Balfour, sometime of Burley, 

Who stirred up to vengeance take, 

For Solemn F.eague aixl rov’nant’s sake, 

Upon the Magus-Moor, in Fife, 

Did tak James Sharfic the apostate's life ; 

By Dutchman’s hands was hacked and shot. 

Then drowiied in Clyde near this saam spot.23 


27 


VOL. II. 


314 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


CONCLUSION. 


I HAD determined to waive the task of a concluding 
chapter, leaving to the reader’s imagination the arrange- 
ments which must necessarily take place after Lord 
fivandale’s death. But as I was aware that precedents 
are wanting for a practice which might be found conven- 
ient, both to readers and compilers, I confess myself to 
have been in a considerable dilemma, when fortunately I 
was honoured with an invitation to drink tea with Miss 
Martha Buskbody, a young lady who has carried on the 
profession of mantua-making at Gandercleugh, and in 
the neighbourhood, with great success, for about forty 
years. Knowing her taste for narratives of this descrip- 
tion, I requested her to look over the loose sheets the 
morning before I waited on her, and enlighten me by the 
experience which she must have acquired in reading 
through the whole stock of three circulating libraries in 
Gandercleugh and the two next market-towns. When, 
with a palpitating heart, I appeared before her in the 
evening, I found her much disposed to be complimentary 

‘‘ I have not been more affected,” said she, wiping the 
glasses of her spectacles, “ by any novel, excepting the 
Tale of Jemmy and Jenny Jessarny, which is indeed 
pathos itself ; but your plan of omitting a formal conclu- 
sion will never do. You may be as harrowing to our 
nerves as you will in the course of your story, but unless 
you had the genius of the author of Julia de Roubigne, 
never let the end be altogether overclouded. Let us see 
a glimpse of sunshine in the last chapter ; it is quite es 
sential.” 

‘‘ Nothing would be more easy for me, madam, thai. 
to comply with your injunctions ; for, in truth, the par- 


OLD MORTALITY. 


315 


ties in whom you have had the goodness to be interested, 
did live long and happily, and begot sons and daughters.” 

“ It is unnecessary, sir,” she said, with a slight nod of 
reprimand, “ to be particular concerning their matrimo- 
nial comforts. But what is your objection to let us have, 
in a general way, a glimpse of their future felicity 9” 

“ Really, madam,” said I, “ you must be aware, that 
every volume of a narrative turns less and less interesting 
as the author draws to a conclusion, just like your tea, 
which, though excellent hyson, is necessarily weaker and 
more insipid in the last cup. Now, as I think the one is 
by no means improved by the luscious lump ©f half-dis- 
solved sugar usually found at the bottom of it, so I am of 
opinion that a history, growing already vapid, is but dully 
crutched up by a detail of circumstances which every 
reader must have anticipated, even though the author ex- 
haust on them every flowery epithet in the language.” 

“ This will not do, Mr. Pattieson,” continued the 
lady ; “ you have, as I may say, basted up your first story 
very hastily and clumsily at the conclusion ; and, in my 
trade, T would have cuffed the youngest apprentice who 
had put such a horrid and bungled spot of work out of 
her hand. And if you do not redeem this gross error 
by telling us all about the marriage of Morton and Edith, 
and what became of the other personages of the story, 
from Lady Margaret down to Goose-Gibbie, I apprize 
you, that you will not be held to have accomplished your 
task handsomely.” 

“ Well, madam,” 1 replied, “ my materials are so 
ample, that I think I can satisfy your curiosity, unless it 
iescend to very minute circumstances indeed.” 

“ First, then,” said she, “ for that is most essential, — 
Did Lady Margaret get back her fortune and her castle .^” 
“ She did, madam, and in the easiest way imaginable, 
ds heir, namely, to her worthy cousin Basil Olifant, who 
died without a will ; and thus, by his death, not only re- 
stored, but even augmented, the fortune of her, whom, 
during his life, he had pursued with the most inveterate 
malice. John Gudyill, reinstated in his dignity, was 


316 


TALES OF MY LANDLORD. 


more important than ever ; and Cuddle, with rapturous 
delight, entered upon the cultivation of the mains of 
Tillietudlem, and the occupation of his original cottage. 
But, with the shrewd caution of his character, he was never 
heard to boast of having fired the lucky shot which repos- 
sessed his lady and himself in their original habitations. 
‘ After aV he said to Jenny, who was his only confidant, 
* auld Basil Olifant was my leddy’s cousin, and n grand 
gentleman ; and though he was acting again the law, asl 
understand, for he ne’er showed ony warrant, or required 
Lord Evandale to surrender, and though I mind killing 
him nae mair than I wad do a muir-cock, yet it’s just as 
weel to keep a calm sough about it.’ He not only did 
so, but ingeniously enough countenanced a report that old 
Gudyill had done the deed, which was worth many a gill 
of brandy to him from the old butler, who, far different 
in disposition from Cuddle, was much more inclined to 
exaggerate than suppress his exploits of manhood. The 
blind widow was provided for in the most comfortable 
manner, as well as the little guide to the Linn ; and” 

“ But what is all this to the marriage — the marriage of 
the principal personages 9” interrupted Miss Buskbody, 
inpatiently tapping her snuff-box. 

“ The marriage of Morton and Miss Bellenden was 
delayed for several months, as both went into deep mourn- 
ing on account of Lord Evandale’s death. They were 
then wedded.” 

“ I hope, not without Lady Margaret’s consent, sir 
said my fair critic. I love books which teach a proper 
deference in young persons to their parents. In a novel 
the young people may fall in love without their counte 
nance, because it is essential to the necessary intricacy o 
the story, but they must always have the benefit of theii 
consent at last. Even old Delville received Cecilia, 
though the daughter of a man of low birth.” 

“ And even so, madam,” replied I, “ Lady Margaret was 
prevailed on to countenance Morton, although the old Cov 
enanter, his father, stuck sorely with her for some time. 
Edith was her only hope, and she wished to see her happy 


OLD MODTALTTT. 


317 


Morton, or Melville Morton, as he was more generally call- 
ed, stood so high in the reputation of the world, and was in 
every other respect such an eligible match, that she put her 
prejudice aside, and consoled herself with the recollec- 
tion, that marriage went by destiny, as was observed to 
her, she said, by his most Sacred Majesty, Charles the 
Second of happy memory, when she showed him the 
portrait of her grandfather Fergus, third Earl of Torwood, 
he handsomest man of his time, and that of Countess 
Jane, his second lady, who had a hump-back and only 
one eye. This was his Majesty’s observation, she said, 
on one remarkable morning when he deigned to take his 
disjune^^ 

“ Nay,” said Miss Buskbody, again interrupting me, 
“if she brought such authority to countenance her acqui- 
escing in a misalliance, there v/as no more to be said. — 
And what became of old Mrs. What’s her name, the 
housekeeper 9” 

“ Mrs. Wilson, madam,” answered I ; “ she was per- 
haps the happiest of the party ; for once a-year, and not 
oftener, Mr. and Mrs. Melville Morton dined in the great 
wainscotted-chamber in solemn state, the hangings being 
all displayed, the carpet laid down, and the huge brass- 
candlestick set on the table, stuck round with leaves of 
laurel. The preparing the room for this yearly festival 
employed her mind for six months before it came about, 
ar 1 the putting matters to rights occupied old Alison the 
other six, so that a single day of rejoicing found her busi- 
ness for all the year round.” 

“ And Niel Blane ?” said Miss Buskbody. 

“ Lived to a good old age, drank ale and brandy with 
guests of all persuasions, played whig or jacobite tunes 
as best pleased his customers, and died worth as much 
money as married Jenny to a cock laird. 1 hope, ma’am, 
you have no other inquiries to make, for really” 

“ Goose-Gibbie, sir said my persevering friend ; 
“ Goose-Gibbie, whose ministry was fraught with such 
consequences to the personages of the narrative 
27* VOL. II. 


31S 


TAIKS OF MY LANDLORD. 


“ Consider, my dear Miss Buskbody, (I beg pardon 
for the familiarity,) — but pray consider, even the memo- 
ly of the renowned Scheherazade, that Empress of 
Tale-tellers, could not preserve every circumstance. I 
am not quite positive as to the fate of Goose-Gibbie, but 
am inclined to think him the same with one Gilbert Dud- 
den, alias Calf-Gibbie, who was whipped through Ham- 
ilton for stealing poultry.” 

Miss Buskbody now placed her left foot on the fender, 
crossed her right leg over her knee, lay back on the chair, 
and looked towards the ceiling. .When I observed her 
assume this contemplative mood, 1 concluded she was 
studying some farther cross-examination, and therefore 
took my hat and wished her a hasty good-night, ere the 
Demon of Criticism had supplied her with any more 
queries. In like manner, gentle Reader, returning you 
my thanks for the patience which has conducted you thus 
far, 1 take the liberty to withdraw myself from you for 
the present. 


PERORATION. 


319 


PERORATION. 


It was mine earnest wish, most courteous Reader, that 
he “ Tales of my Landlord” should have reached thine 
hands in one entire succession of tomes, or volumes. 
But as T sent some few more manuscript quires, contain- 
ing the continuation of these most pleasing narratives, 1 
was apprized, somewhat unceremoniously, by my publish- 
er, that he did not approve of novels (as he injuriously 
called these real histories) extending beyond four volumes, 
and, if I did not agree to the first four being published 
separately, he threatened to decline the article. (O, igno- 
rance ! as if the vernacular article of our mother English 
were capable of declension !) Whereupon, somewhat 
moved by his remonstrances, and more by heavy charges 
for print and paper, which he stated to have been already 
incurred, 1 have resolved that these four volumes shall be 
the heralds or avant-couriers of the Tales which are yet in 
my possession, nothing doubling that they will be eagerly 
devoured, and the remainder anxiously demanded, by 
the unanimous voice of a discerning public. I rest, es- 
teemed Reader, thine as thou shalt construe me, 

Jedediah Cleishbotham. 


Gandercleugh, JVov, 15, 1816. 








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NOTES TO OLD MORTALITY 


1. Pa^e 24. 'J’here was actually a young' cornet of the Life-Guards 
n? nicd Grahamc, and pi obahly some relation of Claverhouse, slain in the 
skirmish of Drumclog. In the old ballad on the Battle of Bothvvell Bridge, 
Claverhouse is said to have continued the slaughter of the fugitives in re- 
venge of this gentleman’s death. 

'' Haud up your hand," then Monmouth said ; 

“ Gie quarters to these men for me 5 " 

But bloody Claver’se swore an oath, 

His kinsman’s death avenged should be. 

The body of this young man was found shockingly mangled after the bat- 
tle, his eyes pulled out, and his features so much ck-taced, that it was impos- 
sible to recognise him. The 'I’ory writers say that this was done by the 
Whigs } because, finding the name Grahame wrought in the young gentle- 
man^ neckcloth, they took the corpse for that of Claver’se himself. I’he 
Whig authorities give a different account, from tradition, of the cause of 
Cornet Grahame’s Dody being thus mangled. He had, say they, relused his 
own dog any food on the morning of the battle, affirming, with an oath, that 
he should have no breakfast but upon the flesh of the Whigs. 'I'he ravenous 
animal, it is said, flew at his master as soon as he lell, and lacerated his lace 
and throat. 

I’hese two stories are presented to the reader, leaving it to him to judge 
whether it is most likely that a party of persecuted and insurgent fanatics 
should mangle a body supposed to be that of their chief enemy, in the same 
manner as several persons present at Urumclog had shortly before treated 
the person of Archbishop ^larpe ; or that a domestic dog should, for want 
of a single breakfast, become so ferocious as to feed on his own master, se- 
lecting his body from scores that were lying around, equally accessible to Ins 
ravenous appetite. 

2. Page 34. The belief of the Covenanters that their principal enemies, 
and Claverhouse in particular, had obtained from the Devil a charm which 
rendered them proof against leaden bullets, led them to pervert even the cir- 
cumstances of his death. Howie of Lochgoin, after giving some account ol 
the battle of Killicrankie, adds : 

^ '' The battle was very bloody, and by Mackay’s third fire, Claverhouse 
;^eii, of whom historians give little account 5 but it has been said for certain, 
that his own waiting-servant, taking a resolution to rid the- world of this 
truculent bloody monster, and knowing he had proof of lead, shot him with 
a silver button he had before taken off nis own coat for that purpose. How- 
ever, he fell, and with him Popery, and King James’s interest in Scotland. — 
(xod’s Judgment on Persecutors, p. xxxix. 

Original note . — Perhaps some may think this anent proof of a shot a 
paradox, and be ready to object here, as formerly, concerning Bishop Sharp* 


322 


NOTES TO OLD MORTALITY. 


mid Dalziel — ' How can the Devil have or give a power to save life V See. 
Without entering upon the thing in its reality, I shall only observe, 1st, That 
t is neither in his power, or of his nature, to be a saviour of men’s lives 5 he 
:s called Apollyon the destroyer. 2d, That even in this case he is said only 
lo give enchantment against one kind of metal, and this does not save life : 
for the lead would not take Sharpe or Claverhouse’s lives, yet steel and sil- 
ver would do it ; and for Dalziel, though he died not on the field, he did not 
escape the arrows of the Almighty.” — Ibid&n. 

3. Page 37. It appears from the letter of Claverhouse afterwards quoted, 
that the horse on which he rode at Drumclog was not black, but sorrel. The 
author has been misled as to the colour by the many extraordinary traditions 
current in Scotland concerning Claverhouse’s famous black charger, which 
was generally believed to have been a gift to its rider from the Author o. 
Evil, who is said to have performed the Caesarean operation upon its dam. 
This horse was so fleet, and its rider so expert, that they are said to have 
outstripped and coted, or turned, a hare upon the Bran-Law, near the head of 
IMotfat Water, where the descent is so precipitous, that no merely earthly 
horse could keep its feet, or merely mortal rider could keep, the saddle. 

There is a curious passage in the testimony of John Dick, one of the suf- 
fering Presbyterians, in which the author, by describing each of the persecu- 
tors by their predominant qualities or passions, shows how little their best- 
loved attributes would avail them in the great day of judgment. When he 
introduces Claverhouse, it is lo reproach him with his passion for horses' iu 
general, and for that steed in particular, which was killed at Drumclog, ir 
the manner described in the text : 

“ As for that bloodthirsty wretch, Claverhouse, how thinks he to shelter 
himself that day ? Is it possible the pitiful thing can be so mad as to think 
to secure himself by the fleelness of his horse, (a creature he has so much re- 
spect for, that he regarded more the loss of his horse at Drumclog, than all 
the men that fell there, and sure there fell prettier men on either side than 
himself?) No, sure — could he fall upon a chemist that could extract the 
spirit out of all the horses in the world, and infuse them into his one, though 
he were on that horse never so well mounted, he need not dream of escap- 
ing.” — The Testimony to the Doctrine, Worship, Discipline, and Government oj 
the Church of Scotland, as it tras left in write by that truly pious and emi- 
nently faithful, and now glorified Martyr, Mr. John Dick. To which is added, 
his last Speech and Behaviour on the Scaffold, on 5th March, 1 684, which day he 
sealed this testimony. 57 pp. 4to. No year or place of publication. 

The reader may perhaps receive some farther information on the subject of 
Cornet Grahame’s death and the flight of Claverhouse, from the following 
Latin lines, a part of a poem entitled, Bothueliianum, by Andrew 

Guild, which exists in manuscript in the Advocates’ Library : 

Mons est occiduus, surgit qui celsus in oris, 

(Nomine Loudunum) fossis puteisque profundis 
Q,uol scatet hie tellus, et aprico gramine tectus ; 

Hue collecta (ait), numeroso milite cincla, 

'J'urba ferox, malres, pueri, innuptmque puellae, 

Quam paral egregia Graemus dispersere turma. 

Venit et primo campo discedere cogit ; 

Post hos et alios, coeno provolvit inerti j 
At numerosa cohors, campum ilispersa per omnem, 

Circumfusa, ruit j tunnasque, indagine capias, 

Aggreditur ; virtus non hie, nec profuit ensis 5 
Corripuere fugam, viridi sed gramine tectis, 

Precipitata peril, fossis, pars uUima, quorum 
Cornipedes haesere luto, sessore rejecto ; 

Turn rabiosa cohors, misereri nesem, stratos 
Invadit laceratque viros ; hie signifer, ehcu ! 


NOTKS TO OLD MORTALITY. 


323 


Trajectus globule, Gi‘a?nius, quo fortior alter, 

Inter Scotigeiias iuerat, nec justior ullus : 
lliuic nianibus rapuere feris, laciemque virilem 
Feedarunt, lingua, auriculis, inanibusque resectis, 

Aspera diffuse spargentes saxa cerebro : 

Vix dux ipse luga salvo, namque exta trahebat 
Vulnere tardatus sonipes geiierosus hiante : 

Insequitur ciainore ctiiors I'anatica, namque 
Crudelis semper timidus, si vicerit unquam.'^ 

MS. BelLum Bothuellianum, 

4. Page 46. This affair, the only one ih which Claverhouse was defeat- 
ed, or the insurgent Cameronians successful, was fought pretty much in th» 
manner mentioned in the text. The Royalists lost about thirty or forty men. 
The commander of the Presbyterian, or rather Covenanting party, was Mr. 
Robert Hamilton, of the honourable House of Preston, brother of Sir Wil- 
liam Hamilton, to whose title and estate he afterwards succeeded j but, ac- 
cording to his biographer, Howie of Lochgoin, he never took possession of 
either, as he could not do so without acknowledging the right of King William 
(an uncovenanted monarch) to the crown. Hamilton had been bred by Bish- 
op Burnet, while the latter lived at Glasgow j his brother. Sir I'homas, hav- 
ing married a sister of that historian. “ He was then,” says the Bishop, '‘a 
lively, hopeful young man ; but getting into that company, and into their 
notions, he became a crack-brained enthusiast.” 

Several well-meaning persons have been much scandalized at the manner 
in which the victors are said to have conducted themselves towards ihe pris- 
oners at Drumclog. But the principle of these poor fanatics, (1 mean the 
high-flying, or Cameronian party,) was to obtain not merely toleration lor 
their church, but the same supremacy which Presbytery had acquired in 
Scotland after the treaty of Rippon, betwixt Charles 1. and his Scottish sub- 
jects, in 1640. 

The fact is, that they conceived themselves a chosen people, sent forth to 
extirpate the heathen, like the Jews of old, and under a similar charge to 
show no quarter. 

The historian of the Insurrection of Bothwell makes the following explicit 
avowal of the principles on which their General acted ; — 

Mr. Hamilton discovered a great deal of bravery and valour, both in tl>e 
conflict with, and pursuit of, the enem}' ; but when he and some other were 
pursuing the enemy, others flew too greedily upon the spoil, small as it wns, 
instead of pursuing the victory ; and some, without Mr. Plarnilton's know- 
ledge, and directly contrary to his express command, gave five of those 
bloody enemies quarter, and then let them go ; this greatly grieved Mr, 
Hamilton when he saw some of Babel’s brats spared, after that the Lord had 
delivered them into their hands, that they might dash them against the stones. 
Psalm cxxxvii., 9. In his own account of this, he reckons the sparing of 
these enemies, and letting them go, to be among their first steppings aside, 
for which he feared that the Lord would not honour them to do, much more 
for him j and says, that he was neither for taking favours from, nor giving 
favours to, the Lord’s enemies.” See A hiie and imfartiai Account of the 
‘persecuted Presbyterians in Scotland, their being in anus, and defeat at BothvelL 
Brigg, in 1679, by William Wilson, late Schoolmaster in the parish of Douglas. 
The reader who would authenticate the quotation, must not consult any other 
edition than that of 1697 for somehow- or other the publisher of the last edi- 
tion has omitted this remarkable part of the narrative. 

Sir Robert Hamilton himself felt neither remorse nor shame for having jnit 
to death one of the prisoners after the battle with his own hand, which ap- 
pears to have been a charge against him, by some whose fanaticism w as less 
exalted than his own. 

As for that accusation they bring against me of killing that poor man ids 
>hey call him) at Drumclog, I may easily guess that my accusers can be no 


324 


NOTES TO OLD MORTALITY. 


other but some of the house of Saul or Shimei, or some such risen again to 
osimuse that poor gentleman (Saul) his tjuarrel against honest Samuel, for his 
offering to kill that poor man Agag, after the king’s giving him quarter. But 
£, being to command that day, gave out the word that no quarter should be 
given j and returning from pursuing Claverhouse, one or two of these fellows 
were standing in the midst of a company of our friends, and some were de- 
bating for quarter, others against it. None could blame me to decide the 
controversy, and I bless the Lord for it to'^his day. There were five more 
that without my knowledge got quarter, who were brought to me after we 
were a mile from the place as having got quarter, which I reckoned among 
the first steppings aside } and seeing that spirit amongst us at that time, 1 
then told it to some that were with me, (to my best remembrance, it was hon- 
est old John Nisbet,) that I feared the Lord would not honour us to do much 
more for him. I shall only say this,' — I desire to bless his holy name, that 
since ever he helped me to set my face to his work, I never had, nor would 
take, a favour from enemies, either on right or left hzmd, and desired to give 
as few.’' 

The preceding passage is extracted from a long vindication of his own 
conduct, sent by Sir Robert Hamilton, 7th December, 1685, addressed to the 
anti-Popish, anti-Prelatic, anti-Erastian, anti-sectarian true Presbyterian 
remnant of the Church of Scotland ; and the substance is to be found in the 
work or collection, called, ‘‘ Faithful Contendings Displayed, collected and 
transcribed by John Howie.” 

As the skirmish of Drumclog has been of late the subject of some inquiry, 
the reader may be curious to see Claverhouse’s own account of the affair, In 
a letter to the Earl of’Linlithgow, written immediately after the action. This 
gazette, as it may be called, occurs in the volume called Dundee’s Letters, 
printed by Mr. Smythe of Methven, as a contribution to the Bannatyne Club. 
The original is in the library of the Duke of Buckingham. Claverhouse, it 
may be observed, spells like a chambermaid. 

FOR THE EARL OF LINLITHGOW. 
[COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF OF KING CHARLES II.’s FORCES IN SCOTLAND.] 

“ Giaskow, Jim. the 1, 1679. 

My Lord, — Upon Saturday’s night, when my Lord Rosse came into this 
place, I marched out, mid because of the insolency that had been done tue 
nights before at Ruglen, I went thither and inquyred for the names. So scon 
as I got them, I sent out partys to sease on them, and found not only three of 
those rogues, but also ane intercomend minister called King. We had them 
at Strevan about six in the morning yesterday, and resolving to convey them 
to this, I thought that we might make a little tour to see if we could fall upon 
a conventicle ; which we did, little to our advantage ; for when we came in 
sight of them, we found them drawn up in batell, upon a most adventageous 
ground, to which there was no coming but through mosses and lakes. They 
wer not preaching, and had got away all there women and shildring. They 
consisted of four battaillons of foot, and all well armed with fusils and pitcli- 
forks, and three squadrons of horse. We sent both partys to skirmish, they 
of foot and we of dragoons ; they run for it, and sent down a battaillon of 
foot against them ; we sent threescore of dragoons, who made them ruit 
again shamfully ; but in end they percaiving that we had the better of them 
in skirmish, they resolved a general! engadgment, and imediatly advanced 
with there foot, the horse folowing ; they came throght the lotche ; the great- 
est body of all made up against my troupe; we keeped our fvre till they wer 
within ten pace of us : they received our fyr. and advanced to shok ; the first 
they gave us brought down the Coronet Mr Crafford and Captain Bleith, be- 
sides that with a pitchfork they made such an opeiieing* in my rone horse^s 
belly, that his guts hung out half an elle, and yet he carried me af an mvl ; 


NOTES TO OLD MORTALITY. 


325 


»vhich so discoraged our men, that they sustained not the shok, but fell into 
disorder. There horse took the occasion of this, and purseued us so hotly 
that we had no tym to rayly I saved the standarts, but lost on the place 
about aight or ten men, besides wounded 5 but the dragoons lost many mor. 
They ar not com esily af on the other side, for 1 sawe severall of them fall 
befor we cam to the shok. I mad the best retraite the confusion of our people 
would suffer, and I am now laying with my Lord Rosse. The toun of Streven 
drew up as we was making our retrait, and thoght of a pass to cut us off, but 
we took courage and fell to them, made them run, leaving a dousain on the 
place. What these rogues will dou yet I know not, but the contry was flock- 
ing to them from all hands. This may be counted the begining of the rebel- 
lion, in my opinion. 

I am, my lord, 

Your lordship’s most humble servant, 

“ J. Grahame. 

My lord, 1 am so wearied and so sleapy, that I have wryton this very 
confusedly. 

5. Page 129. These feuds, which tore to pieces the liule army of insur- 
gents, turned merely on the point whether the king's interest or ro\ al authority 
was to be owned or not, and whether the party in arms w(>re lobe contented 
with a free exercise of their own religion, or insist upon the re-establisliment 
of Presbytery in its supreme authority, and with lull uower to predominate 
over all other forms of worship. 'I'he few country gentlemen who joined the 
insurrection, with the most seusibh^ part of the clergy, thought it best to limit 
their demands to what it might be possible to attain. lUit the party who 
urged these moderate views were termed by tlie more z«-alous bigots, the 
Eraslian party, men. namely, who were willing to place the ehureh under the 
influence of the civil government, and therefore they accounted them, a 
snare upon Mizpah, and a net spread upon 'Pabor.” Sec the Idle of Sir 
Robert Hamilton in the Scottish Worthies, and his account of the Rattle of 
Bothwell-bridge, jwssu/t. 

G. Page The Cameronians had suffered persecution, but it w’as 

without learning merc}^ We are informed by Captain Crichton, that they 
had set up in their camp a huge gibbet, or gallows, having many hooks upon 
it, w'ith a coil of new ropes lying beside it, for the execution of such royalists 
as they might make prisoners. Guild, in his Dellian BothtteUiaiium, describes 
this machine particularly. 

7. Page 160. A Cameronian muse was awakened from slumber on this 
doleful occasion, and gave the following account of the muster of the royal 
forces, in poetry nearly as melancholy as the subject : — 

They marched east through Lithgow-town 
For to enlarge their forces ; 

And sent for all the north-country 
'Po come, both foot and horses. 

Montrose did come and Athole both, 

And with them many more 5 

And all the Highland Amorites 
That had been there before. 

The Lowdien Mallisha* they 
Came with their coats of blew j 


28 VOL. II. 


Lothian Militia. 


326 


notf:s to old aioutautt, 


Five hundred men from London came, 

Claid in a reddish ime. 

When they were assembled one and all, 

A full brigade were they ; 

Like to a pack of hellish hounds, 

Roreing after their prey. 

When they were all provided well, 

In armour and amonition, 

Then thither wester did they come, 

Most cruel of intention. 

The royalists celebrated their victory in stanzas of equal merit. Speci 
mens of both may be found in the curious collection of Fugitive Scottish 
Poetry, principally of the Seventeenth Century, printed for the Messrs 
Laing, Edinburgh. 

8. Page 165. The author does not by any means, desire that Poundtext 
should be regarded as a just representation of the moderate presbyterians, 
among whom were many ministers whose courage was equal to their good 
sense and sound views of religion. Were he to write the tale anew, he 
would probably endeavour to give the character a higher turn. It is certain, 
however, that the Camcronians imputed to their opponents in opinion con- 
cerning the Indulgence, or others of their strained and fanatical notions, a 
disposition not only to seek their own safety, but to enj'oy themselves. Ham- 
ilton speaks of tliree clergymen of this despriplion as follows : — 

Thev pretended great zeal against the Indulgence j but alas ! that was 
all their practice, otherwise being but very gross, which I shall but hint at in 
short. When great Cameron and those with him were taking many a cold 
blast and storm in the fields and among the cot-houses in Scotland, these three 
had for the most part iheir residence in Glasgow, where they found good 
quarter aud a full table, which I doubt not but some bestowed upon them from 
real affection to the Lord’s cause ; and w'hen these three were together, their 
greatest work was who should make the finest and sharpest roundel, and 
breathe the quickest jests upon one another, and to tell what valiant acts 
they were to do, and who could laugh loudest and most heartily among them j 
and when at any time they came out to the country, whatever other things 
they had, they were careful each of them to have a great flask of brandy 
with them, which was very heavy to some, particularly to Mr. Cameron, Mr. 
Cargill, and Henry Hall — I shall name no more .” — Faithful Contendings, 
p. 198. 

9. Page 172. In Crichton’s Memoirs, edited by Swift, where a particu- 
lar account of this remarkable person’s dress and habits is given, he is said 
never to have worn boots. The following account of his rencounter with 
John Paton of Meadowhead, showed, that m action at least he wore pretty 
stout ones, unless the reader be inclined to believe in the truth of his having 
a charm, which made him proof against lead. 

“ Dalzell,” says Paton’s biographer, ''advanced the whole left wing oi 
his army on Colonel Wallace’s right. Here Captain Paton behaved with 
great courage and g’allanlry. Dalzell, knowing him in the former wars, ad- 
vanced upon him himself,thinkingto take him prisoner. Upon his approach, each 
presented his pistol. On their first discharge. Captain Paton, perceiving his 
pistol ball lo hop upon Dalzell’s hoots, and knowing what was the cause, (he 
having proof,) put his hand in his pocket for some small pieces of silver ho 
had there for the purpose, and put one of them into his other pistol. But 
Dalzell, having his eye upon him in the meanwhile, retired behind his owu 
matt, who by that means was slain.” 


NOTES TO OLD MORTALITY. 


327 


10. Page 186. This was the slogan or war-cry of the MacFarlanes, 
taken from a lake near the head of Loch Lomond, in the centre of their an- 
cient possessions on the western banks of tliat beautiful inland sea. 

11. Page 200. The principal incident of the foregoing Chapter was sug- 
gested by an occurrence of a similar kind, told me by a gentleman, now de- 
ceased, who held an important situation in the Excise, to which he had been 
raised by active and resolute exertions in an inferior department. When 
employed as a supervisor on the coast of Gallowa^y, at a time when the im- 
munities of the Isle of Man rendered smuggling almost universal in that dis- 
trict, this gentleman had the foi'tune to otfend highly several of the leaders in 
the conli'abnnd trade, by his zeal in serving the revenue. 

'J’liis renderetl his situation a dangerous one, and, on more than one occa- 
.sion, placed his life in jeopardy. At one time in particular, as he was riding 
fitter sunset on a summer evening, he came suddenly upon a gang of the most 
desjierale smugglers in that part of the country. They surrounded him, 
without \ iolcncr;. i>ut in such a manner as to show that it would be resortetl 
to it he often'd resistance, and gave iiim to understand he must spend the 
evening with them, since they had met so happily. The officer did not at- 
tempt opposition, but only asked leave to send a country lad to tell his wife 
and family that he should be detained later than he expected. As he had to 
charge the boy with this message in the pi'esence of the smugglers, he could 
found no hope of deliverance from it, save what might arise from the sharp- 
ness of the lad’s observation, and the natural anxiety and affection of his 
w ife. But if his errand should be delivered and received literally, as he w as 
conscious the smugglers expected, it was likely that it might, hj' suspending 
alarm about his absence from home, postpone all search after him till it might 
be useless. Making a merit of necessity, therefore, he instructed and de- 
spatched his messenger, and went with the contraband traders, w ith seeming 
willingness, to one of their ordinary haunts. He sat down at table with 
them, and they began to drink and indulge themselves in gross jokes, while, 
like Mirabel in the “ Inconstant,” their prisoner had the heavy task of receiv- 
ing their insolence as wit, answering their insults with good humour, and 
withholding from them the opportunity which they sought of engaging him in 
a quarrel, that they might have a pretence for misusing him. Ho succeeded 
for some time, but soon became satisfied it was their purpose to murder him 
outright, or else to beat him in such a manner as scarce to leave him w ith life. 
A regard for the sanctity of the Sabbath evening, which still oddly subsisted 
among these ferocious men, amidst their habitual violation of divine and so- 
cial law, prevented their commencing their intended cruelty until the Sab- 
bath should be terminated. 'I'hey were sitting around their anxious prisoner, 
muttering to each other words of terrible import, and watching the index of 
a clock, which was shortly to strike the hour at which, in their apprehension, 
murder would become lawful, w'hen their intended victim heard a distant 
rustling like the wind among withered leav'es. It came nearer, and resem- 
bled the sound of a brook in flood chafing within its banks ; it came nearer 
yet, and was plainly distinguished as the galloping of a party of horse. The 
absence of her husband, and the account given by the boy of the suspicious 
appearance of those w'ith whom he had remaineef, had induced Mrs. — • — to 
a{)pl y to the neighbouring town for a party of dragoons, w^^ho thus providen- 
tially arrived in time to save him from extreme violence, if not from actual 
destruction. 

12. Page 203. The author is uncertain whether this was ever said of 
tTlaverhouse, But it was currently reported of Sir Robert Grierson of Lagg, 
another of the persecutors, that a cup of wine placed in his hand turned to 
clotted blood. 

13. Page 213. David Hackston of Rathillet, who was wounded and 
made prisoner in the skirmish of Air’s-Moss, in which the celebrated Came 


328 


NOTES TO OLD MORTALITY 


ron fell, was, on entering Edinburgh, “ by order of the Council, received bj 
the Magistrates at the Watergate, and set on a horse's bare back with his 
face to the tail, and the other three laid on a goad of iron, and earned up the 
street, Mr. Cameron's head being on a halberd before them." 

14. Page 218. The General is said to have struck one of the captive 
whigs, when under examination, with the hilt of his sabre, so that the blood 
gushed out. The provocation for this unmanly violence was, that the pris- 
oner bad called the fierce veteran a Muscovy beast, who used to roast 
men." Dalzell had been long in the Russian service, which in those days 
was no school of humanity. 

15. Page 220. This was the reply actually made by James Mitchell 
when subjected to the torture of the boot, for an attempt to assassinate 
Archbishop Sharpe. 

16. Page 222. The pleasure of the Council respecting the relics of their 
victims was often as savage as the rest of their conduct. The heads of the 
preachers were frequently exposed on pikes between their two hands, the 
palms displayed as in the attitude of prayer. When the celebrated Ricliard 
Cameron's bead was exposed in this manner, a spectator bore testimony to it 
as that of one who lived praying and preaching, and died praying and fighting. 

17. Page 222. See a note on the subject of this office in the Heart of 
Mid-Lothian. 

IS. Page 224. August 1674. Claverhouse greatly distinguished himself 
in this action, and was made Captain. 

19. Page 255. This incident is taken from a story in the History of Ap- 
paritions written by Daniel Defoe, under the assumed name of Morton. To 
abridge the narrative, we are under the necessity of omitting many of those 
particular circumstances which give the fictions of this most ingenious author 
such a lively air of truth. 

A gentleman married a lady of family and fortune, and had one son by her, 
after which the lady died. The widower afterwards united himself in a se- 
cond marriage 5 and his wife proved such a very stepmother to the heir ol 
the first marriage, that, discontented with his situation, he left his father's 
house, and set out on distant travels. His father heard from him occasional- 
ly, and the young man for some time drew regularly for certain allowances 
which were settled upon him. At length, owing to the instigation of his 
mother-in-law, one of his draughts was refused, and the bill returned dishon- 
oured. 

After receiving this affront, the youth drew no bills, and wrote no more 
letters, nor did his father know in what part of the world he was. The step- 
mother seized the opportunity to represent the young man as deceased, and 
to urge her husband to settle his estate anew upon her children, of whom she 
had several. The father for a length of time positively refused to disinherit 
his son, convinced as he was, in his own mind, that he was still alive. 

At length, worn out by his wife’s importunities, he agreed to execute the 
new deeds, if his son did not return within a year. 

During the interval, there were many violent disputes between the husband 
and wife, upon the subject of the family settlements. In the midst of one of 
these altercations, the lady was startled by seeing a hand at a casement of 
the window j but as the iron hasps, according to the ancient fashion, fastened 
in the inside, the hand seemed to essay the fastenings, and being unable 
undo them, was immediately withdrawn. The lady, forgetting the quarrel 
with her husband, exclaimed that there was some one in the garden. The 
nusband *ushed out, but could find no trace of any ir trader, whiU the walls 


NOTES TO OLD MORTALITY. 


329 


ef the gEu*den seemed to render it impossible for any such to have made his 
escape. He therefore taxed his wife with having fancied that which she sup- 
posed she saw. She maintained the accuracy of her sight j on which her 
husband observed, that it must have been the devil, w’ho was apt to haunt 
those who had evil consciences. 'I’his tart remark brought back the matri- 
monial dialogue to its original current. “ It was no devil,” said the lady, 
‘‘ but the ghost of your son come to tell you he is dead, and that you may 
give your estate to your bastards, since you will not settle it on the lawful 
heirs.” — It was my son,” said he, '‘come to tell me that he is alive, and 
ask you how you can be such a devil as to urge me to disinherit him j” with 
that he started up and exclaimed, “ Alexander, Alexander! if you are alive, 
show yourself, and do not let me be insulted every day with being told you 
are dead.” 

At these words, the casement which the hand had been seen at, opened of 
•tself, and his son Alexander looked in W'ith a full face, and, staring directly 
on the mother with an angry countenance, cried, “ Here !” and then vanish- 
ed in a moment. 

T'he lady, though much frightened at the apparition, had wit enough to 
make it serve her own purpose j for, as the spectre appeared at her husband's 
summons, she made affidavit that he had a familiar spirit w ho appeared w hen 
he called it. To escape from this discreditable charge, the poor husband 
agreed to make the new settlement of the estate in the terms demanded by 
the unreasonable lady. 

A meeting of friends was held for that purpose, the new deed was executed, 
and the wife was about to cancel the former settlement by tearing the seal, 
when on a sudden they heard a rushing noise in the parlour in which they sat, 
as if something had come in at the door of the room which opened from the 
hail, and then had gone through the room towards the garden-door, which was 
shut 5 they were all surprised at it, for the sound was very distinct, but they 
saw nothing. 

This rather interrupted the business of the meeting, but the persevering 
•ady brought them back to it. “ I am not frightened,” said she, “ not I. — 
Come,” said she to her husband, haughtily, “ I'll cancel the old writings, if 
forty devils were in the room 5 ” with that she took up one of the deeds, and 
was about to tear off the seal. But the double-ganger, or Eidolon, of Alex- 
ander, was as pertinacious in guarding the rights of his principal, as his step- 
mother in invading them. 

The same moment she raised the paper to destroy it, the casement flew 
open, though it was fast in the inside just as it was belbre, and the shadow of 
a body was seen as standing in the garden without, the face looking into the 
room, and staring directly at the woman with a stern and angry countenance. 
“ Hold !” said the spectre, as if speaking to the lady, and immediately 
closed the window and vanished. After this second interruption, the new 
settlement w’as cancelled by the consent of all concerned, and Alexander, in 
about four or five months after, arrived from the East Indies, to which he had 
gone four years before from London in a Portuguese ship. He could give 
no explanation of what had happened, excepting that he dreamed his father 
had written him an angry letter, threatening to disinherit him. — 77ie History 
and Reality of Apparitions, chap. viii. 

20 Page 287. The deeds of a man, or rather a monster, of this name, 
are recorded upon the tombstone of one of those martyrs which it was Old 
Mortality's delight to repair. I do not remember the name ol ihe mitnii i« d 
person, but the circumstances of the crime were so terrible to my childi.vli im 
agination, that I am confident the following copy of the Epitaph w ill lx !< m.d 
nearly correct, although I have not seen the original lor forty years at least 

This martyre was by Peter Inglis shot. 

By birth a tiger rather than a Scot ; 


330 


NOTES TO OLD MORTALITY. 


Who, that his hellish ofTspring might be seen, 

Cut off his head, then kick’d it o'er the green j 
Tims was the head which was to wear the croun, 

A loot-ball made by a profane dragoon. 

In Dundee's Letters, Captain Inglish, or Inglis, is repeatedly mentioned as 
commanding a troop of horse. 

21. Page 295. The severity of persecution often drove the sufferers to 
hide themselves in dens and caves of the earth, where they had not only to 
struggle with the real dangers of damp, darkness, and famine, but were call- 
ed upon, in their disordered imaginations, to oppose the infernal powers by 
wliotn such caverns were believed to be haunted. A very romantic scene Oi 
rocks, thickets, and cascades, called Creehope Linn, on the estate of Mr. 
Menteath of Closeburn, is said to have been the retreat of some of these en- 
thusiasts, who Judged it safer to face the apparitions by which the place was 
thought to be haunted, than to expose themselves to the rage of their mortal 
enehhes. 

Another remarkable encounter betwixt the Foul Fiend and the champions 
of the Covenant, is preserved in certain rude rhymes, not yet forgotten in 
Ettriok Forest. Two men, it is said, by name Halbert Dobson and David Dun, 
constructed for themselves a place of refuge in a hidden ravine of a very 
savage character, by the side of a considerable waterfall, near the head of 
Moffat water. Here, concealed from human foes, they were assailed by 
Satan himself, who came upon them grinning and making mouths, as if try- 
ing to frighten them, and disturb their devotions. The wanderers, more in- 
cciised than astonished at this supernatural visitation, assailed their ghostly 
visiter, buffeted him soundly with their Bibles, and compelled him at length 
to change himself into the resemblance of a pack of dried hides, in w'hich 
shape he rolled down the cascade. The shape which he assumed was pro- 
bably designed to excite the cupidity of the assailants, who, as Souters of 
Selkirk, might have been disposed to attempt something to save a package 
of good leather. Thus, 

Hab Dab and David Din. 

Dang the Deil ower Dabson's Linn." 

The popular verses recording this feat, to which Bums seems to have been 
indebted lor some hints in his Address to the Deil, may be found in the Min- 
strelsy of the Scottish Border, vol. ii. 

It cannot be matter of wonder to any one at all acquainted with human 
nature, that superstition should have aggravated, by its horrors, the appre- 
hensions to which men of enthusiastic character were disposed by the gloomy 
haunts to which they had fled for refuge. 

22. Page 301. The sword of Captain John Paton of Meadowhead, a 
Cameronian famous for his personal prowess, bore testimony to his exertions 
in the cause of the Covenant, and was typical of the oppressions of the times 
" This sword or short shabble” {sciabla, Italian) “ yet remains," says Mr. 
Howie of Loch Goin. “ It was then by his progenitors" (meaning descend- 
ants, a rather unusual use of the word) “ counted to have twenty-eight gaps 
in its edge ; which made them afterwards observe, that there were Just as 
many years in the lime of the persecution as there were steps or broken 
pieces in the edge thereof ." — Scottish Worthies, edit. 1797, p. 419. 

The persecuted party, as their circumstances led to their placing a due and 
sincere reliance on heaven, when earth was scarce permitted to Dear them, 
fell naturally into enthusiastic credulity, and, as they imagined, direct con- 
tention with the powers of darkness, so they conceived some amongst them 
to be possessed of a power of prediction, which, though they did not exactly 
call it inspired prophecy, seems to have approached, in their opinion, verv 


NOTES TO OLD MORTALITY. 


331 


nearly to it. The subject of these predictions was generally of a melancho 
.y nature 5 for it is during such times of blood and confusion that 

'' Pale-eyed prophets whisper fearful change.’’ 

The celebrated Alexander Peden was haunted by the terrors of a French 
invasion, and was often heard to exclaim, '' Oh, the Monzies, the French 
Monzies,” (for Monsieurs, doubtless,) how they run ! How long will they 
run ? Oh Lord, cut their houghs, and stay their running !” He afterwards 
declared, that French blood would run thicker in the waters of Ayr and Clyde 
than ever did that of the Highlandmen. Upon another occasion, he said he 
had been made to see the French marching with their armies through the 
length and breadth of the land in the blood of all ranks, up to the bridle reins, 
and that for a burned, broken, and buried covenant. 

Gabriel Semple also prophesied. In passing by the house of Kenmure, to 
which workmen were making some additions, he said, “ Lads, you are very 
busy enlarging and repairing that house, but it will be burned like a crow’s 
nest in a misty May morning which accordingly^ came to pass, the house 
being burned by the English forces in a cloudy May morning. Other instan- 
ces might be added, but these are enough to show the character of the people 
and times. 

23. Page 313. The return of John Balfour of Kinloch, called Burley, to 
Scotland, as well as his violent death in the manner described, is entirely 
fictitious. He was wounded at Bothwell Bridge, when he uttered the exe- 
cration transferred to the text, not much in unison with his religious preten- 
sions. He afterwards escaped to Holland, where he found refuge, witn other 
fugitives of that disturbed period. His biographer seems simple enough to 
believe that he rose high in the Prince of Orange’s favour, and observes, 
“ That having still a desire to be avenged upon those who persecuted the 
Lord’s cause and people in Scotland, it is said he obtained liberty from the 
Prince for that purpose, but died at sea before his arrival in Scotland j 
whereby that design was never accomplished, and so the land was never 
cleansed by the blood of them who had shed innocent blood, according to 
the law of the Lord, Gen ix. G, Whoso sheddeth maids blood, by man shall his 
blood be shed d' — Scottish Worthies, p. 622. 

It was reserved for this historian to discover, that the moderation of King 
William, and his prudent anxiety to prev'cnt that perpetuating of factious 
quarrels, which is called in modern times Reaction, were only adopted in 
consequence of the death of John Balfour, ctilled Burley. 

The late Mr. Weinyss of Wemyss Hall, in Fifeshire, succeeded to Balfour’s 
property in late times, and had several accounts, papers, articles of dress, 
See. which belonged to the old homicide. 

His name seems still to exist in Holland or Flanders ; for in the Brussels 
papers of 28th July, 1828, Lieutenant-Colonql Balfour de Burleigh is named 
Commandamt of the troops of the King of the Netherlands in the West- 
Indies. 


END OF OLD MORTALITY. 



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